Reminiscences, even extensive ones, do not always amount to an autobiography. For autobiography has to do with time, with sequence and what makes up the continuous flow of life. Here, I am talking of a space, of moments and discontinuities. For even if months and years appear here, it is in the form they have at the moment of commemoration.

The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.

For what is the program of the bourgeois parties? A bad poem on springtime, filled to bursting with metaphors.

Only for the sake of the hopeless ones have we been given hope.

It is in a small village in the Pyrenees where no one knows me 7that my life will come to a close.... There is not enough time remaining for me to write all the letters I would like to write.

In the convulsions of the commodity economy, we begin to recognize the monuments of the bourgeoisie as ruins even before they have crumbled.

Literature tells very little to those who understand it.