Each time I fail to think about death, I have the impression of cheating, of deceiving someone in me.

Tears do not burn except in solitude.

I don’t understand why we must do things in this world, why we must have friends and aspirations, hopes and dreams. Wouldn’t it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world, where all its noise and complications would be heard no more? Then we could renounce culture and ambitions; we would lose everything and gain nothing; for what is there to be gained from this world?

Everything is pathology, except for indifference.

Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.

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

By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.