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We moved back to Romania when I was thirteen, and my world was shattered. I hated Bucharest, its society, and its mores — its anti-Semitism for example. I was not Jewish, but I pronounced my r’s as the French do and was often taken for a Jew, for which I was ruthlessly bullied.… It was the time of the rise of Nazism and everyone was becoming pro-Nazi — writers, teachers, biologists, historians … It was a plague! They despised France and England because they were yiddified and racially impure.

Psihoză colectivă, domnule Dudard, psihoză colectivă! Ca şi religia, care-i opiumul popoarelor!

- Her eyes . . . What's the colour of her eyes . . . ?
JEAN : Misty eyes . . . no, black . . . no, very bright . . . and penetrating . . . no, elusive . . . with a present, no, absent look, the colour of certain dreams, as gentle as the touch of a warm river in summer. You see? She's easy to recognize!

The purpose of the Collège was the demolition of culture, even of surrealism, which they considered too organized. But make no mistake, these people were graduates of the Ecole Normale Supérieure and highly cultured. Their method was based on puns and practical jokes—le canular. There is a great tradition of puns in Anglo-Saxon literature — Shakespeare, Alice in Wonderland — but not in French. So they adopted it. They believed that the science of sciences is the pataphysique and its dogma, le canular.

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Am avut întodeauna o proastă cenestezie:nu îmi e bine în pielea mea.De unde și nevoia de euforizante sau de băutură...
Să te lași în voia vieții.Să te lași purtat,să te lași ca pluta pe apele duratei,să te lași în voia vieții și astfel,poate,să ajungi în stare a te lăsa să mori.Minima rezistență.

We need to be virtually bludgeoned into detachment from our daily lives, our habits and mental laziness, which conceal from us the strangeness of the world. Without a fresh virginity of mind, without a new and healthy awareness of existential reality, there can be no theatre and no art either; the real must be in a way dislocated, before it can be re-integrated.

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It was quite fashionable to poke fun at Hugo. You remember Gide’s “Victor Hugo is the greatest French poet, alas!” or Cocteau’s “Victor Hugo was a madman who thought he was Victor Hugo.” Anyway, I hated rhetoric and eloquence. I agreed with Verlaine, who said, “You have to get hold of eloquence and twist its neck off!” Nonetheless, it took some courage. Nowadays it is common to debunk great men, but it wasn’t then.

Realism falls short of reality. It shrinks it, attenuates it, falsifies it; it does not take into account our basic truths and our fundamental obsessions: love, death, astonishment. It presents man in a reduced and estranged perspective. Truth is in our dreams, in the imagination.