Men are convinced of your arguments, your sincerity, and the seriousness of your efforts only by your death.

maybe she had become tired of being the girlfriend of a condemned man. It also occured to me that maybe she was sick, or dead. These things happen. [...] Anyway, after that, remembering Marie meant nothing to me. That seemed perfectly normal to me, since I understood very well that people would forget me when I was dead.

Of course, true love is exceptional - two or three times a century, more or less. The rest of the time there is vanity or boredom.

Whoever today speaks of human existence in terms of power, efficiency, and historical tasks is an actual or potential assassin.

The look of success, when it is worn a certain way, would infuriate a jackass.

Over there, in Europe, all was shame and anger. Here it was exile or solitude, among these languid and agitated madmen who danced in order to die.

Finally, and most of all, words failed him.