One must talk. That's how it is. One must.

I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word. Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.

Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. A vast emptiness. A possible book. Before nothing. Before something like living, naked writing, like something terrible, terrible to overcome.

Oh, how good it is to be with someone, sometimes.

She represents the un-vowed aspiration of the male human being, his potential infidelity - and infidelity of a very special kind, which would lead him to the opposite of his wife, to the woman of wax whom he could model at will, make and unmake in any way he wished, even unto death.

All that remains of that minute is time in all its purity, bone-white time.

Banality is sometimes striking.