A madman's ravings are absurd in relation to the situation in which he finds himself, but not in relation to his madness.

Originally, poetry creates the myth, while the prose-writer draws its portrait.

I have no need for good souls: an accomplice is what I wanted.

But I must finally realize that I am subject to these sudden transformations. The thing is that I rarely think; a crowd of small metamorphoses accumulate in me without my noticing it, and then, one fine day, a veritable revolution takes place.

The plight of modern man is that he is condemmed to be free.

That God does not exist, I cannot deny, That my whole being cries out for God I cannot forget.

Let it crumble! Let the rocks revile me and flowers wilt at my coming. Your whole universe is not enough to prove me wrong. You are the king of gods, king of stones and stars, king of the waves of the sea. But you are not the king of man.