Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.

There was a time when time did not yet exist. … The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.

I cannot contribute anything to this world because I only have one method: agony.

An aphorism? Fire without flames. Understandable that no one tries to warm himself at it.

Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.