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

It's quite an undertaking to start loving somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment right at the start where you have to jump across an abyss: if you think about it you don't do it.

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

Absurd, irreducible; nothing — not even a profound and secret delirium of nature — could explain it. Obviously I did not know everything, I had not seen the seeds sprout, or the tree grow. But faced with this great wrinkled paw, neither ignorance nor knowledge was important: the world of explanations and reasons is not the world of existence. A circle is not absurd, it is clearly explained by the rotation of a straight segment around one of its extremities. But neither does a circle exist. This root, on the other hand, existed in such a way that I could not explain it.

For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it.

Man is what he wills himself to be.

Time is too large, it can't be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates.