« ... we know that the unconscious does not know death, the unconscious does not know depression. What then is depression? It is a regression to manipulate someone else, even within ourselves, someone introjected in us, who is there to manipulate us, to brush our navel, or to suck our thumb - which is another way to masturbate, less regressive than to make believe that we have an umbilical cord that we will wake up, or that will articulate us. »

« It is obvious that by speaking out, by putting words on our uncertainties, our unknowns, and our anxieties, we support each other on this strange planet where we have been willing to embody ourselves - we do not know why, neither me nor you. I am convinced, for my part, that this makes sense, and this sense, we can only find it by talking with each other, and that by helping us, who are perhaps the butterflies of a species, the blood cells of a blood - we do not know from whom, of what - but we have to die after having lived fully until the last moment. It is this to live, with this limit that gives meaning to life, and without which life would have no meaning. That is what we have to say to the children. »

« ... each of us will know when he's done living. `...` ... It's true. What happens in each of us, this struggle to survive, in which everything is worn out of what are the forces of our body, and then, perhaps, we touch the Real that we cannot know in a body, in time and in space. It is affordable by art, whatever this art: music, painting, architecture, dance. It is affordable in moments of extraordinary grace, where one experiences something of the order of beauty, of an unknowable discovery in our usual flesh. I think that it is in this order, the Real, that I wish you all to discover after a life well over, and helped to the end to be able to talk to those around us the day when we think we will talk about it, and when we will have, in fact, the pleasure of having an interlocutor who will want to talk about it. »