Polemical debates happen all the time in France.

The love of a dog is a pure thing. He gives you a trust which is total. You must not betray it.

Love binds, and it binds forever. Good binds while evil unravels. Separation is another word for evil; it is also another word for deceit.

I feel as if things are falling apart within me, like so many glass partitions shattering. I walk from place to place in the grip of a fury, needing to act, yet can do nothing about it because any attempt seems doomed in advance. Failure, everywhere failure. Only suicide hovers above me, gleaming and inaccessible.

In reality, the monotheist texts preach neither peace, love nor tolerance. They are texts of hate.

I'd say that the question whether love still exists plays the same role in my novels as the question of God's existence in Dostoevsky.

It's a curious idea to reproduce when you don't even like life.