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

I do not understand! I understand nothing! I cannot understand nor do I want to understand! I want to believe! To Believe!

Don't you feel the same way? When I cannot see myself, even though I touch myself, I wonder if I really exist.

Once freedom lights its beacon in man's heart, the gods are powerless against him.

Man is condemned to be free

As long as the writer cannot write for the two billion men who are hungry, he will be oppressed by a feeling of malaise.

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.