The truth is that I can’t put down my pen: I think I’m going to have the Nausea and I feel as though I’m delaying it while writing. So I write whatever comes into my mind.
She suffers as a miser. She must be miserly with her pleasures, as well. I wonder if sometimes she doesn't wish she were free of this monotonous sorrow, of these mutterings which start as soon as she...
She is dearer to me than life. But her suffering comes from within, and only she can rid herself of it. For she is free.
Las palabras se habían desvanecido, y con ellas la significación de las cosas, sus modos de empleo, las débiles marcas que los hombres han trazado en su superficie. Estaba sentado, un poco encorvado,...
La plupart du temps, faute de s'attacher à des mots, mes pensées restent des brouillards. Elles dessinent des formes vagues et plaisantes, s'engloutissent : aussitôt, je les oublie.
La mayor parte del tiempo, al no unirse a palabras, mis pensamientos quedan en la niebla. Dibujan formas claras y agradables, se disipan; en seguida las olvido.
L'enfer, c'est les autres.
Je n'ai jamais gratté la terre ni quêté des nids, je n'ai pas herborisé ni lancé des pierres aux oiseaux. Mais les livres ont été mes oiseaux et mes nids, mes bêtes domestiques, mon étable et ma campa...
Je crois que c'est moi qui ai changé: c'est la solution la plus simple. La plus désagréable aussi. Mais einfin je dois reconnaître que je suis sujet à ces transformations soudaines. Ce qu'il y a, c'es...
J'étais un enfant, ce monstre qu'ils fabriquent avec leurs regrets.
In the distance.Above my head; above my head; and this instant which I cannot leave, which locks me in andlimits me on every side, this instant I am made of will be no more than a confused dream.
INEZ: What's the matter?ESTELLE: I feel so queer. Don't you ever get taken that way? When I can't see myself I begin to wonder if I really and truly exist. I pat myself just to make sure, but it doesn...
I want no secrets or soul-states, nothing ineffable; I am neithervirgin nor priest enough to play with the inner life.
I slip Anny's letter back into my despatch case: she has done what she could; I cannot reach the woman who took it in her hands, folded and put it in the envelope. Is it possible even to think of some...
I exist. It's sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you'd think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my throat, it caress...
I am free,’ he said suddenly. And his joy changed, on the spot, to a crushing sense of anguish.
But you looked much more like a fellow who had just realised that he has been living on ideas that don’t pay.
But faced with this great wrinkled paw, neither ignorance nor knowledge was important: the world of explanations and reasons is not the world of existence.
Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.
انني لم أُخلق لأعيش ،ولست أعرف ما هي الحياة ،وليس بي حاجة لأعرف ذلكإنما أنا شيء فائض عن الحياة، وليس لي من مكان