I wanted my own words. But the ones I use have dragged through I don't know how many consciences.

If I did not publish this autobiography [Les Mots] sooner and in its most radical form, it is because I considered it exaggerated.

What's done at night belongs to the night. In the daytime you don't talk about it.

It is meaningless that we are born, it is meaningless that we die.

A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness...and suddenly the “I” pales, pales, and fades out.

I have such a desire to sleep and am so much behind my sleep. A good night, one good night and all this nonsense will be swept away.

Genius is what a man invents when he is looking for a way out.