Nothing proves that we are more than nothing.

That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.

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

If we manage to last in spite of everything, it is because our infirmities are so many and so contradictory that they cancel each other out.

God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.

If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.

How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history - greater than the fall of empires - I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.