Man must vanquish himself, must do himself violence, in order to perform the slightest action untainted by evil.

To hope is to contradict the future.

What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.

Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!

I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.