In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.

Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

Fear can supplant our real problems only to the extent -unwilling either to assimilate or to exhaust it -we perpetuate it within ourselves like a temptation and enthrone it at the very heart of our solitude.

We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.

We understand God by everything in ourselves that is fragmentary, incomplete, and inopportune.

There is only one thing worse than boredom, and that is the fear of boredom.

The premonition of madness is complicated by the fear of lucidity in madness, the fear of the moments of return and reunion... One would welcome chaos if one were not afraid of lights in it.