She believed in nothing; only her skepticism kept her from being an atheist.

This is what I thought: for the most banal even to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.

I do not feel that I am the product of chance, a speck of dust in the universe, but someone who was expected, prepared, prefigured. In short, a being whom only a Creator could put here; and this idea of a creating hand refers to God.

Nothingness haunts Being.

The viable jewels of life remain untouched when man forgets his vocation of searching for the truth of his existence.

That is exactly the writer's problem. What does literature stand for in a hungry world?

He is always becoming, and if it were not for the contingency of death, he would never end.