Truth is not a virtue, but a passion. It is never charitable.

Nothing is more despicable than respect based on fear.

The harshest winter finds an invincible summer in us.

Thus each of us had to be content to live only for the day, alone under the vast indifference of the sky.

I have no friends, I only have accomplices now. On the other hand, my accomplices are more numerous than my friends: they are the human race.

In the end, we would like not to be guilty while at the same time being dispensed of the effort of purifying ourselves. Not enough cynicism and not enough virtue.

Heroism is accessible. Happiness is more difficult.