As a jealous man, I suffer four times over: because I am jealous, because I blame myself for being so, because I fear that my jealousy will wound the other, because I allow myself to be subject to a banality: I suffer from being excluded, from being aggressive, from being crazy, and from being common.

As a language, Garbo's singularity was of the order of the concept, that of Audrey Hepburn is of the order of the substance; the face of Garbo is an Idea, that of Hepburn, an Event.

Thus every writer's motto reads: mad I cannot be, sane I do not deign to be, neurotic I am.

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

I call the discourse of power any discourse that engenders blame, hence guilt, in its recipient.

Each of us has his own rhythm of suffering.

To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.