“the world is neither meaningful, nor absurd. it quite simply is, and that, in any case, is what is so remarkable about it.”

Memory belongs to the imagination.

The art of the novel, however, has fallen into such a state of stagnation – a lassitude acknowledged and discussed by the whole of critical opinion – that it is hard to imagine such an art can survive for long without some radical change.

The true writer has nothing to say. What counts is the way he says it.

What do young girls dream of? Of the knife and of blood.

Memory belongs to the imagination. Human memory is not like a computer which records things.

The reader [as well as the main character] does not view the work from outside. He too is in the labyrinth.

Premie’ re approximation: j’e cris pour de truire, en les de crivant avec pre cision, des monstres nocturnes qui menacent d’envahir ma vie e veille e. First general point: I write to destroy, by describing exactly the nocturnal monsters that threaten to invade my waking life.

There is a famous Russian cartoon in which a hippopotamus, in the bush, points out a zebra to another hippopotamus: ‘You see,’ he says, ‘now that’s formalism.

It is part of the imaginative process, on the same terms as invention.

To many, the solution seems simple enough: such a change being impossible, the art of the novel is dying.

They play gangsters, nowadays, just like boys. They organize rackets. They plan holdups and practice karate. They will rape defenseless adolescents. They wear pants…

Deux me’ tresou un peu plusse parent donc l’homme de la femme. Two metres, or a little more, separates a man from a woman.

Le lecteur, lui non plus, ne voit pas les choses du dehors. Il est dans le labyrinthe aussi.

On n’e chappe pas a’ son sort. One cannot escape destiny.

To tell the truth, girls are no longer the way they used to be.

A greater absurdity cannot be thought of than a morose, hardhearted, covetous, proud, malicious Christian.

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

Absurdity is what I like most in life.

I don’t like the word ironic. I like the word absurdity, and I don’t really understand the word ‘irony’ too much. The irony comes when you try to verbalize the absurd. When irony happens without words, it’s much more exalted.

I like darkness and confusion and absurdity, but I like to know that there could be a little door that you could go out into a safe life area of happiness.

I look at the world and I see absurdity all around me. People do strange things constantly, to the point that, for the most part, we manage not to see it. That’s why I love coffee shops and public places – I mean, they’re all out there.

I had become aware, as early as my college days, that no opinion, however absurd and incredible can be imagined, that has not been held by one of the philosophers.

The idea of only someone else loving you is absurd. You need to learn to love yourself too.