This endured absence is nothing more or less than forgetfulness. I am, intermittently, unfaithful. This is the condition of my survival.

Each of us has his own rhythm of suffering.

I have not a desire but a need for solitude.

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

Isn’t the most sensitive point of this mourning the fact that I must lose a language — the amorous language? No more ‘I love you’s.

It is no longer the sexual which is indecent, it is the sentimental.

Historically and politically, the petit-bourgeois is the key to the century. The bourgeois and proletariat classes have become abstractions: the petite-bourgeoisie, in contrast, is everywhere, you can see it everywhere, even in the areas of the bourgeois and the proletariat, what's left of them.