I exist. It's sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you'd think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my mouth. I swallow. It slides down my throat, it caresses me — and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth - lying low - grazing my tongue. And this pool is still me. And the tongue. And the throat is me.

There is no salvation anywhere. The idea of salvation implies the idea of an absolute.

A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution.

We cannot withdraw our cards from the game. Were we as silent and mute as stones, our very passivity would be an act.

Lord, you have cursed Cain and Cain’s children: thy will be done. You have allowed men’s hearts to be corrupted, that their intentions be rotten, that their actions putrefy and stink: thy will be done.

Everything comes to us from others. To Be is to belong to someone.

Il n'y a de réalité que dans l'action. (There is no reality except in action.)