One always dies too soon or too late. And yet, life is there, finished: the line is drawn, and it must all be added up. You are nothing other than your life.

Hell is other people at breakfast.

God is the solitude of men. There was only me: I alone decided to commit Evil; alone, I invented Good. I am the one who cheated, I am the one who performed miracles, I am the one accusing myself today, I alone can absolve myself; me, the man.

One does not adopt a new idea, one slips into it.

This is the basis for the joy of love when there is joy; we feel that our existence is justified.

This desire [to write] is rather strange all the same and is not without a certain "cracked" quality.

When one loves animals and children too much, one loves them against human beings.