One cannot live without motives. I have no motives left, and I am living.
What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
Every form of talent involves a certain shameless-ness.
You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.
Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.