Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

A decadent civilization compromises with its disease, cherishes the virus infecting it, loses its self-respect.

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

Psychoanalysis is a technique we practice at our cost; psychoanalysis degrades our risks, our dangers, our depths; it strips us of our impurities, of all that made us curious about ourselves.

I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.

Each time I fail to think about death, I have the impression of cheating, of deceiving someone in me.

It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.