Alcohol Doesn't Console, It Doesn't Fill Up

People Come To Paris, To The Capital, To Give Their Lives A Sense Of Belonging, Of An Almost Mythical Participation In Society.

Very Early In My Life It Was Too Late.

Finding Yourself In A Hole, At The Bottom Of A Hole, In Almost Total Solitude, And Discovering That Only Writing Can Save You. To Be Without The Slightest Subject For A Book, The Slightest Idea For A Book, Is To Find Yourself, Once Again, Before A Book. A Vast Emptiness. A Possible Book. Before Nothing. Before Something Like Living, Naked Writing, Like Something Terrible, Terrible To Overcome.

I Am Dead. I Have No Desire For You. My Body No Longer Wants The One Who Doesn’t Love.

In A Certain State Of Mind, All Trace Of Feeling Is Banished. Whenever I Remain Silent In A Certain Way, I Don't Love You, Have You Noticed That?