Afflicted with existence, each man endures like an animal the consequences which proceed from it. Thus, in a world where everything is detestable, hatred becomes huger than the world and, having transcended its object, cancels itself out.

Not one moment when I have not been conscious of being outside Paradise.

Only one thing matters: learning to be the loser.

Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.

If you're unlucky enough not to have alcoholic parents, it takes you a whole lifetime of intoxication to overcome the dead weight of their virtues.

By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?

What a pity that 'nothingness' has been devalued by an abuse of it made by philosophers unworthy of it!