Everyone's pet is the most outstanding. This begets mutual blindness.

The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed.

It is not inspiration; it is expiration.

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 is line? It is life. A line must live at each point along its course in such a way that the artist's presence makes itself felt above that of the model... With the writer, line takes precedence over form and content. It runs through the words he assembles. It strikes a continuous note unperceived by ear or eye. It is, in a way, the soul's style, and if the line ceases to have a life of its own, if it only describes an arabesque, the soul is missing and the writing dies.

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

If a hermit lives in a state of ecstasy, his lack of comfort becomes the height of comfort. He must relinquish it.