Everyone who has known me, without exception, believes I am dead. My own conviction that I exist is diametrically opposed to the unanimity of others. Whatever I do, I cannot ensure that the image of Robinson's corpse remains in everyone's minds. This is enough—not to actually kill me—but to drive me to the edge of life, to a place suspended between heaven and the underworld, in short, in limbo... Closer to death than any other human being, I am simultaneously closer to the source of sexuality. Grand Prix du roman de l'Académie française 1967.