As long as the writer cannot write for the two billion men who are hungry, he will be oppressed by a feeling of malaise.

This is what I thought: for the most banal even to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.

The existentialist says at once that man is anguish.

So that is what hell is. I would never have believed it. You remember: the fire and brimstone, the torture. Ah! the farce. There is no need for torture: Hell is other people.

I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.

As long as the writer cannot write for the two billion men who are hungry, he will be oppressed by a feeling of malaise.

Why do you keep maintaining your ideas are right if you can't prove them?