True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

What do you do from morning to night?" "I endure myself.

By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?

Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.

The curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing now but mask and ghost.

A regret understood by no one: the regret to be a pessimist. It’s not easy to be on the wrong foot with life.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.