What is not possible is not to choose.

Everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident

I considered calmly that I was born to write.

That’s what existence means: draining one’s own self dry without the sense of thirst.

I wanted pure love: foolishness; to love one another is to hate a common enemy: I will thus espouse your hatred. I wanted Good: nonsense; on this earth and in these times, Good and Bad are inseparable: I accept to be evil in order to become good.

Philosophy which does not help to illuminate the process of the liberation of the oppressed should be rejected.

I am beginning to believe that nothing can ever be proved. These are honest hypotheses which take the facts into account: but I sense so definitely that they come from me, and that they are simply a way of unifying my own knowledge. Not a glimmer comes from Rollebon's side. Slow, lazy, sulky, the facts adapt themselves to the rigour of the order I wish to give them; but it remains outside of them. I have the feeling of doing a work of pure imagination.