Then I realized what separated us: what I thought about him could not reach him; it was psychology, the kind they write about in books. But his judgment went through me like a sword and questioned my very right to exist. And it was true, I had always realized it; I hadn't the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a stone, a plant or a microbe. My life put out feelers towards small pleasures in every direction. Sometimes it sent out vague signals; at other times I felt nothing more than a harmless buzzing.

Once freedom lights its beacon in man's heart, the gods are powerless against him.

What I regretted in La Nausee was not to have put myself completely into the thing. I remained outside my hero's disease, protected by my neurosis which, through writing, gave me happiness.

I hate victims who respect their executioners.

The form [of literature] matters little to me, classical or not.

I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.

Acting is a question of absorbing other people's personalities and adding some of your own experience.