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

Criticism often takes from the tree caterpillars and blossoms together.

Listen to me: a family man is never a real family man. An assassin is never entirely assassin. They play a role, you understand. While a dead man, he is really dead. To be or not to be, right?

My eyes feel all soft, all soft as flesh. I'm going to sleep.

Absurd, irreducible; nothing--not even a profound and secret delirium of nature--could explain [a tree root].

I wanted pure love: foolishness; to love one another is to hate a common enemy: I will thus espouse your hatred. I wanted Good: nonsense; on this earth and in these times, Good and Bad are inseparable: I accept to be evil in order to become good.

The absurd man will not commit suicide; he wants to live, without relinquishing any of his certainty, without a future, without hope, without illusions … and without resignation either. He stares at death with passionate attention and this fascination liberates him. He experiences the “divine irresponsibility” of the condemned man.