Nothing is more comical than seriousness understood as a virtue that has to precede all important literature

Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.

Once in a while it happens that I vomit up a bunny... it's not reason for one to blush and isolate oneself and to walk around keeping one's mouth shut.

The mysterious does not spell itself out in capital letters, as many writers believe, but is always between, an interstice.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

Why have we had to invent Eden, to live submerged in the nostalgia of a lost paradise, to make up utopias, propose a future for ourselves?

Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.