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.

I live only because it is in my power to die when I choose to: without the idea of suicide, I'd have killed myself right away.

Skepticism is the sadism of embittered souls.

Not to be born is undoubtedly the best plan of all. Unfortunately, it is within no one's reach.

In most cases we attach ourselves to in order to take revenge on life, to punish it, to signify we can do without it, that we have found something better, and we also attach ourselves to God in horror of men.

Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!

To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.