For forty years I was conscripted by the absolute, the neurosis. The absolute is gone. There remain countless tasks among which literature is in no way privileged.

Time is too large, it can't be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates.

I am not asking for sensational revelations, but I would like to sense the meaning of that minute, to feel it's urgency.

Freedom is existence, and in it existence precedes essence.

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

The poor don't know that their function in life is to exercise our generosity.

Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you.