If Nietzsche is correct, that to shame a man is to kill him, then any honest attempt at autobiography will be an act of self-destruction.

Can one be a saint if God does not exist? That is the only concrete problem I know of today.

Turbulent childhood, adolescent daydreams in the drone of the bus's motor, mornings, unspoiled girls, beaches, young muscles always at the peak of their effort, evening's slight anxiety in a sixteen-year-old-heart, lust for life, fame, and ever the same sky through the years, unfailing in strength and light, itself insatiable, consuming one by one over a period of months the victims stretched out in the form of crosses on the beach at the deathlike hour of noon.

You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.

For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving.

Man wants to live, but it is useless to hope that this desire will dictate all his actions.

It is immoral not to tell.