No doubt our love was still there, but quite simply it was unusable, heavy to carry, inert inside of us, sterile as crime or condemnation. It was no longer anything except a patience with no future and a stubborn wait.

Yes, everything is simple. It's people who complicate things.

Nothing is more despicable than respect based on fear.

[Paris] is dirty. It has pigeons and black yards. The people have white skin.

To write is to become disinterested. There is a certain renunciation in art.

Ah, mon cher, for anyone who is alone, without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful.

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.