The wise man, the sage, is hostile to the new. Disabused, he abdicates: that is his form of protest.

This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this and I do not. Everything is unique - and insignificant.

Nothing is so wearing as the possession or abuse of liberty.

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

By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.

The more we try to rest ourselves from our Egos, the deeper we sink into it.

Once you see that everything is unreal, you can't see why you should bother to prove it.