My eyes feel all soft, all soft as flesh. I'm going to sleep.

The coward makes himself cowardly, the hero makes himself heroic.

Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up; I forget them almost immediately.

Man can will nothing unless he has first understood that he must count on no one but himself.

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.

[Contemporary writer] could be a kind of [Samuel] Beckett who would not be felt to be totally committed to despair.

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