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

I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.

To live in any true sense of the word is to reject others; to accept them, one must be able to renounce, to do oneself violence, to act against one's own nature, to weaken oneself; we conceive freedom only for ourselves - we extend it to our neighbours only at the cost of exhausting efforts; whence the precariousness of liberalism, a defiance of our instincts, a brief and miraculous success, a state of exception, at the antipodes of our deepest imperatives.

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.

Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?

Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself.

To exist is a habit I do not despair of acquiring.