On Sunday morning I went out for a while in the neighbourhood; I bought some raisin bread. The day was warm but a little sad, as Sundays often are in Paris, especially when one doesn't believe in God.

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

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

The world outside had its own rules, and those rules were not human.

The triumph of vegetation is total.

In order to pass the time I told him the story of the German who ate the other German whom he’d met on the internet.

I've lived so little that I tend to imagine I'm not going to die; it seems improbable that human existence can be reduced to so little; one imagines, in spite of oneself, that sooner or later something is bound to happen. A big mistake. A life can just as well be both empty and short. The days slip by indifferently, leaving neither trace nor memory; and then all of a sudden they stop.