I discovered suddenly that alienation, exploitation of man by man, under-nourishment, relegated to the background metaphysical evil which is a luxury.

One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world.

Who can exhaust a man? Who knows a man's resources?

In a word, man must create his own essence: it is in throwing himself into the world, suffering there, struggling there, that he gradually defines himself.

This [service to oppressed] is the writer's task, and, if he fulfills it as he should, he acquires no merit from it.

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?

Once liberty has exploded in the soul of a man, the gods can do nothing against that man.