The writer cannot abandon himself simply to inspiration, and feign innocence vis a vis language, because language is never innocent.
In the Europe which was created by the Second World War, divided into two blocks, each in need of a revolution that would end the abuses and injustices of capitalism and the privileges of a bureaucratic caste, collective faith does not exist.
As I began to discover my own truth and endeavored to possess it with clarity, I became more and more alienated from that which my companions held, or professed to hold.
Marks of Identity is, among other things, the expression of the process of alienation in a contemporary intellectual with respect to his own country.
When I write now I do not invent situation, characters, or actions, but rather structures and discursive forms, textual groupings which are combined according to secret affinities among themselves, as in architecture or the plastic arts.