When one wants to write, one writes. If one is condemned to write, one writes.
Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.
(memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.
I can't think of another writer who can move me as surreptitiously as Vian does
Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.
I think it is vanity to want to put into a story anything but the story itself.