Life and death have been lacking in my life.
One concept corrupts and confuses the others. I am not speaking of the Evil whose limited sphere is ethics; I am speaking of the infinite.
Like all writers, he measured the achievements of others by what they had accomplished, asking of them that they measure him by what he envisaged or planned.
Life itself is a quotation.
Nothing is built on stone; all is built on sand, but we must build as if the sand were stone.
In the order of literature, as in others, there is no act that is not the coronation of an infinite series of causes and the source of an infinite series of effects.
I have known uncertainty: a state unknown to the Greeks.
I foresee that man will resign himself each day to new abominations, and soon that only bandits and soldiers will be left.
Art always opts for the individual, the concrete; art is not Platonic.
Democracy is an abuse of statistics.
Poetry remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art.
Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.
I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does.
Reading is an activity subsequent to writing: more resigned, more civil, more intellectual.
Reality is not always probable, or likely.