[Contemporary writer] could be a kind of [Samuel] Beckett who would not be felt to be totally committed to despair.

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

As for me, I am mean: that means that I need the suffering of others to exist. A flame. A flame in their hearts. When I am all alone, I am extinguished.

I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.

An individual chooses and makes himself.

In wanting freedom we discover that it depends entirely on the freedom of others, and that the freedom of others depends on ours. . . I am obliged to want others to have freedom at the same time that I want my own freedom. I can take freedom as my goal only if I take that of others as a goal as well.

Because we can imagine, we are free.