I should wish [Alain Robbe-Grillet] to realize that Guinea exists.

Nothingness haunts Being.

Love or hatred calls for self-surrender. He cuts a fine figure, the warm-blooded, prosperous man, solidly entrenched in his well-being, who one fine day surrenders all to love—or to hatred; himself, his house, his land, his memories.

Be quiet! Anyone can spit in my face, and call me a criminal and a prostitute. But no one has the right to judge my remorse.

Is there really nothing, nothing left of me?

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?

Everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident