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

What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.

We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.

Freedom can be manifested only in the void of beliefs, in the absence of axioms, and only where the laws have no more authority than a hypothesis.

The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.

All that shimmers on the surface of the world, all that we call interesting, is the fruit of ignorance and inebriation.