I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything.

The plight of modern man is that he is condemmed to be free.

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.

Man can will nothing unless he has first understood that he must count on no one but himself.

Listen to me: a family man is never a real family man. An assassin is never entirely assassin. They play a role, you understand. While a dead man, he is really dead. To be or not to be, right?

Neither sex, without some fertilization of the complimentary characters of the other, is capable of the highest reaches of human endeavor.

Better a good journalist than a poor assassin.