Since these mysteries exceed my grasp, I shall pretend to have organized them.

After the writer's death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.

Without opium, plans, marriages and journeys appear to me just as foolish as if someone falling out of a window were to hope to make friends with the occupants of the room before which he passes.

Do not fear being ridiculous in relation to the ridiculous.

Nothing ever gets anywhere. The earth keeps turning round and gets nowhere. The moment is the only thing that counts.

Commissions suit me. They set limits. Jean Marais dared me to write play in which he would not speak in the first act, would weep for joy in the second and in the last would fall backward down a flight of stairs.

What uniform can I wear to hide my heavy heart? It is too heavy. It will always show.