Originally, poetry creates the myth, while the prose-writer draws its portrait.

The absurd man will not commit suicide; he wants to live, without relinquishing any of his certainty, without a future, without hope, without illusions … and without resignation either. He stares at death with passionate attention and this fascination liberates him. He experiences the “divine irresponsibility” of the condemned man.

Life is a useless passion.

There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

That is exactly the writer's problem. What does literature stand for in a hungry world?

I can receive nothing more from these tragic solitudes than a little empty purity.

I do not understand! I understand nothing! I cannot understand nor do I want to understand! I want to believe! To Believe!