I realized that searching was my symbol, the emblem of those who go out at night with nothing in mind, the motives of a destroyer of compasses.

I realized that searching was my symbol, the emblem of those who go out at night with nothing in mind, the motives of a destroyer of compasses.

Literature is ... a game, but it's a game one can put one's life into.

When one wants to write, one writes. If one is condemned to write, one writes.

I raised the camera, pretended to study a focus which did not include them, and waited and watched closely, sure that I would finally catch the revealing expression, one that would sum it all up, life that is rhythmed by movement but which a stiff image destroys, taking time in cross section, if we do not choose the essential imperceptible fraction of it.

Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.

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