Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

It was the only way to progress, to stop.

But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.

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

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.