I was a neophyte in another world [in 1954].

As long as the writer cannot write for the two billion men who are hungry, he will be oppressed by a feeling of malaise.

He is always becoming, and if it were not for the contingency of death, he would never end.

This [service to oppressed] is the writer's task, and, if he fulfills it as he should, he acquires no merit from it.

In Les Mots I explain the origin of my madness, of my neurosis. This analysis may help the young who dream of writing.

No finite point has meaning without an infinite reference point.

There is a universe behind and before him. And the day is approaching when closing the last book on the last shelf on the far left; he will say to himself, "now what?