When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves.

Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.

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

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.

True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

No position is so false as having understood and still remaining alive.

How easy it is to be "deep": all you have to do is let yourself sink into your own flaws.