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

There is a universe behind and before him. And the day is approaching when closing the last book on the last shelf on the far left; he will say to himself, "now what?

I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.

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

Man is abandoned on earth in the midst of his infinite responsibilities, without help, with no aim but what he sets himself.

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.

Objects should not touch because they are not alive. You use them, put them back in place, you live among them: they are useful, nothing more. But they touch me, it is unbearable. I am afraid of being in contact with them as though they were living beasts.