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.

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

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

We no longer believe because it is absurd: it is absurd because we must believe.

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.

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.

Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.