I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.

I speak for an art ... weary of its puny exploits, weary of pretending to be able, of being able, of doing a little better the same old thing, of going a little further along a dreary road.

Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.

I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.

Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.