Father died last year. I don't subscribe to the theory by which we only become truly adult when our parents die; we never become truly adult.

The triumph of vegetation is total.

The absence of the will to live is, alas, not sufficient to make one want to die.

In my own writing, I think of myself as a realist who exaggerates a little.

I think that if writers don't speak about real life, it's because they don't know it.

it’s true this world our breathing laboured inspires nothing more than obvious disgust a desire to flee without our share and no longer read the headlines we long to return to our ancestral home where our forebears once lived under an angel’s wing we long to find that strange morality which sanctified life to the end we crave something like loyalty like the embrace of mild addictions something that transcends yet contains life we cannot live far from eternity

An entire life spent reading would have fulfilled my every desire; I already knew that at the age of seven. The texture of the world is painful, inadequate; unalterable, or so it seems to me. Really, I believe that an entire life spent reading would have suited me best. Such a life has not been granted me.