Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.

All the concessions we make to Eros are holes in our desire for the absolute.

Tyranny destroys or strengthens the individual; freedom enervates him, until he becomes no more than a puppet. Man has more chances of saving himself by hell than by paradise.

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

Life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry stricken with epilepsy.

We change ideas like neckties.

Every thought should recall the ruin of a smile.