I construct my memories with my present. I am lost, abandoned in the present. I try in vain to rejoin the past: I cannot escape.

Man is abandoned on earth in the midst of his infinite responsibilities, without help, with no aim but what he sets himself.

You see, the contemporary writer must write through his intimations of unease, while trying to elucidate them.

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.

God is absence. God is the solitude of man.

I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.

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