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

How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.

Those who believe in their truth -- the only ones whose imprint is retained by the memory of men -- leave the earth behind them strewn with corpses. Religions number in their ledgers more murders than the bloodiest tyrannies account for, and those whom humanity has called divine far surpass the most conscientious murderers in their thirst for slaughter.

To accomplish nothing and die of the strain

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?

Suffering makes you live time in detail, moment after moment. Which is to say that it exists for you: over the others, the ones who don't suffer, time flows, so that they don't live in time, in fact they never have.

Do I look like someone who has something to do here on earth?' —That's what I'd like to answer the busybodies who inquire into my activities.