Literature takes its revenge on reality by making it the slave of fiction.

I was very fond of Lagneau’s phrase: “I have no comfort but in my absolute despair.

As long as there have been men and they have lived, they have all felt this tragic ambiguity of their condition, but as long as there have been philosophers and they have thought, most of them have tried to mask it.

For years I thought my work still lay ahead, and now I find it is behind me: there was no moment when it took place.

Sex pleasure in woman is a kind of magic spell; it demands complete abandon; if words or movements oppose the magic of caresses, the spell is broken.

It was easier for me to think of a world without a creator than of a creator loaded with all the contradictions of the world.

If the writer is a woman, feminist or not, it will give the language something that it would not have if it had been used by a man.