War Has Become An Affair Of Machines...and

An Uncertain Evil Causes Anxiety Because, At The Bottom Of One's Heart, One Goes On Hoping Till The Last Moment That It May Not Be True; A Certain Evil, On The Other Hand, Instills, For A Time, A Kind Of Dreary Tranquillity.

Modern Man-whether In The Womb Of The Masses, Or With His Workmates, Or With His Family, Or Alone-can Never For One Moment Forget That He Is Living In A World In Which He Is A Means And Whose End Is Not His Business.

Yes, One Uses What One Knows, But Autobiography Means Something Else. I Should Never Be Able To Write A Real Autobiography; I Always End By Falsifying And Fictionalizing—i’m A Liar, In Fact. That Means I’m A Novelist, After All. I Write About What I Know.

A Writer Survives In Spite Of His Beliefs.

You Can't Think On Purpose About Somebody Or Something. Either You Think About Them Naturally Or You Don't Think At All.