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Each of us has his own rhythm of suffering.

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Flaubert had infinite correction to perform.

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To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you tho...more

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As soon as someone dies, frenzied construction of the future (shifting furniture, etc.): futuromania.

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To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love (the ot...more

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The author enters into his own death, writing begins.

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Miseries of a birth.

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We don’t forget, but something vacant settles in us.

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Paradoxically (since people say: Work, amuse yourself, see friends) it’s when we’re busy, distracted, sought out, exteriorized, that we suffer most. I...more

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Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.

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Literature is that neuter, that composite, that oblique into which every subject escapes, the trap where all identity is lost, beginning with the very...more

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The text you write must prove to me that it desires me. This proof exists: it is writing. Writing is: the science of the various blisses of language, ...more