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

What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?

As far as I am concerned, I resign from humanity. I no longer want to be, nor can still be, a man. What should I do? Work for a social and political system, make a girl miserable? Hunt for weaknesses in philosophical systems, fight for moral and esthetic ideals? It’s all too little. I renounce my humanity even though I may find myself alone. But am I not already alone in this world from which I no longer expect anything?

What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.

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.