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

The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.

Wisdom disguises our wounds; it teaches us how to bleed in secret.

Discretion is deadly to genius; ruinous to talent.

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

I seem to myself, among civilized men, an intruder, a troglodyte enamored of decrepitude, plunged into subversive prayers.

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