Everything comes to us from others. To Be is to belong to someone.

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

The sun is not ridiculous, quite the contrary. On everything I like, on the rust of the construction girders, on the rotten boards of the fence, a miserly, uncertain light falls, like the look you give, after a sleepless night, on decisions made with enthusiasm the day before, on pages you have written in one spurt without crossing out a word.

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

In a country lacking leaders, in Africa, for instance, how could a native educated in Europe refuse to become a professor, even at the price of his literary vocation?

One should commit no stupidity twice, the variety of choice is, in the end, large enough.

The viable jewels of life remain untouched when man forgets his vocation of searching for the truth of his existence.