Science explains the world, but only Art can reconcile us to it.

Burn with that consuming fire of objectivity that forces a man to renew efforts that are doomed to failure.

Every stink that fights the ventilator thinks it is Don Quixote.

I do not like the way people use the more and more magnificent fruits of technology to their filthy deeds.

The number of one's possible fantasies is inversely proportional to the amount of one's liquid assets. For him who has everything dreams are no longer possible.

I felt myself being invaded through and through, I crumbled, disintegrated, and only emptiness remained.

My pessimism (which, by the way, is far from absolute) originated with my despair in the lack of perfection to be found in human nature. I was attempting in my successive books to show the inevitable handicap of the human condition.