I've always been keenly aware of the passing of time. I've always thought that I was old. Even when I was twelve, I thought it was awful to be thirty. I felt that something was lost. At the same time, I was aware of what I could gain, and certain periods of my life have taught me a great deal. But, in spite of everything, I've always been haunted by the passing of time and by the fact that death keeps closing in on us.

This has always been a man's world, and none of the reasons that have been offered in explanation have seemed adequate.

Literature in France seems to be undergoing a crisis now, and nothing comes immediately to mind.

The arrogance of some Christians would close heaven to them if, to their misfortune, it existed.

Be loved, be admired, be necessary; be somebody.

If you haven't been happy very young, you can still be happy later on, but it's much harder. You need more luck.

It's true that this is one of the problems which often arises among my radical, revolutionary feminist friends: Do you have to join the system or not? On the one hand, if you don't, you risk being ineffectual. But if you do, from that moment on, you place your feminism at the service of a system which you want to take apart.