The novel wins by points, the short story by knockout.
What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?
When one wants to write, one writes. If one is condemned to write, one writes.
I can't think of another writer who can move me as surreptitiously as Vian does
(memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.
As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. (...) You don't pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert.