So that is what hell is. I would never have believed it. You remember: the fire and brimstone, the torture. Ah! the farce. There is no need for torture: Hell is other people.

A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness...and suddenly the “I” pales, pales, and fades out.

I hate victims who respect their executioners.

The writer is committed when he plunges to the very depths of himself with the intent to disclose, not his individuality, but his person in the complex society that conditions and supports him.

At times discreetly, at times disgustingly, I yielded to the most fatal temptation whenever I could no longer bear it: as a result of impatience, Orpheus lost Eurydice; as a result of impatience, I lost myself.

What's done at night belongs to the night. In the daytime you don't talk about it.

Better to have beasts that let themselves be killed than men who run away.