God is absence. God is the solitude of man.

You see, the contemporary writer must write through his intimations of unease, while trying to elucidate them.

When one loves animals and children too much, one loves them against human beings.

Words are loaded pistols.

The existentialist says at once that man is anguish.

Is there really nothing, nothing left of me?

But for me there is neither Monday nor Sunday: there are days which pass in disorder, and then, sudden lightning like this one. Nothing has changed and yet everything is different. I can't describe it, it's like the Nausea and yet it's just the opposite: at last an adventure happens to me and when I question myself I see that it happens that I am myself and that I am here; I am the one who splits in the night, I am as happy as the hero of a novel.