I needed to justify my existence, and I had made an absolute of literature. It took me thirty years to get rid of this state of mind.

I'd come to realize that all our troubles spring from our failure to use plain, clear-cut language.

Fear? If I have gained anything by damning myself, it is that I no longer have anything to fear.

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

The universe remains dark. We are animals struck by catastrophe.

She believed in nothing; only her skepticism kept her from being an atheist.

Is there really nothing, nothing left of me?