Is there really nothing, nothing left of me?

In Guinea I could read [Franz] Kafka. I re-discover in him my own discomfort.

At that time [1954], as a result of political events, I was deeply preoccupied by my relations with the Communist Party.

It is too early to love. We will buy the right to do so by shedding blood.

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.

Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.

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