I can't think of another writer who can move me as surreptitiously as Vian does

Time is born in the eyes, everybody knows that.

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

Salt and the center of the world have to be there, in that spot on the tablecloth.

I have never described this to you before, not so much, I don't think, from lack of truthfulness as that, just naturally, one is not going to explain to people at large that from time to time one vomits up a small rabbit.

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

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.