The disaster ruins everything, all the while leaving everything intact.

Weak thoughts, weak desires: he felt their force.

If nothing were substituted for everything, it would still be too much and too little.

A story? No. No stories, never again.

What if what has been said one time not only does not cease to be said but always recommences, and not only recommences but also imposes upon us the idea that nothing has ever truly begun, having from the beginning begun by beginning again.

A writer never reads his work. For him, it is the unreadable, a secret, and he cannot remain face to face with it. A secret, because he is separated from it.

The disaster ruins everything, all the while leaving everything intact.