Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.

I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.

A study of the Great Malady; horror of home.

Hashish will be, indeed, for the impressions and familiar thoughts of the man, a mirror which magnifies, yet no more than a mirror.

In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.

We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.

Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.