I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of out time - the time of purple suspenders, and broken chair seats; it is made of white, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years.

Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.

If you are lonely when you're alone, you are in bad company.

I receive letters from workers, from secretaries. . . . They are the most interesting ones.

I think [Alain Robbe-Grillet] a good writer, but he speaks to the comfortable bourgeoisie.

Everything in my past, in my training, everything that has been most essential in my activity up to now has made me above all a man who writes, and it is too late for that to change.

Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up; I forget them almost immediately.