I tell you in truth: all men are Prophets or else God does not exist.

Because the Nazi venom worked its way even into our thoughts, every accurate thought was a conquest; because an all-powerful police sought to force us into silence every word became as precious as a declaration of principle; because we were persecuted, each of our gestures carried the weight of a commitment.

Is there really nothing, nothing left of me?

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

In Les Mots I explain the origin of my madness, of my neurosis. This analysis may help the young who dream of writing.

A lost battle is a battle one thinks one has lost.

He walked on in silence, the solitary sound of his footsteps echoing in his head, as in a deserted street, at dawn. His solitude was so complete, beneath a lovely sky as mellow and serene as a good conscience, amid that busy throng, that he was amazed at his own existence; he must be somebody else's nightmare, and whoever it was would certainly awaken soon.