Love or hatred calls for self-surrender. He cuts a fine figure, the warm-blooded, prosperous man, solidly entrenched in his well-being, who one fine day surrenders all to love—or to hatred; himself, his house, his land, his memories.

I am alone in the midst of these happy, reasonable voices. All these creatures spend their time explaining, realizing happily that they agree with each other. In Heaven's name, why is it so important to think the same things all together.

I have always been happy. Even if I had been more honest with regard to myself at that moment I should still have written La Nausee.

I considered calmly that I was born to write.

A Soviet citizen, an official writer, once said to me: "The day when Communism (that is, well-being for everyone) reigns, man's tragedy will begin: his finitude."

Why do you keep maintaining your ideas are right if you can't prove them?

I have always been an optimist, perhaps even too much.