Thrown into the atmosphere of action [in 1954], I suddenly understood the kind of neurosis that dominated all my previous work. I had not been able to recognize it before: I was inside. Simone de Beauvoir had guessed these reasons before I did.

My thought is me: that is why I cannot stop thinking. I exist because I think I cannot keep from thinking.

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.

Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.

If you are lonely when you're alone, you are in bad company.

Life begins on the other side of despair.

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