To exist is equivalent to an act of faith, a protest against the truth, an interminable prayer. As soon as they consent to live, the unbeliever and the man of faith are fundamentally the same, since both have made the only decision that defines a being.

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

Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.

Every thought should recall the ruin of a smile.

Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.

Everything turns on pain; the rest is accessory, even nonexistent, for we remember only what hurts. Painful sensations being the only real ones, it is virtually useless to experience others.

The true hero fights and dies in the name of his destiny, and not in the name of a belief.