We are so lonely in life that we must ask ourselves if the loneliness of dying is not a symbol of our human existence.

Glory - once achieved, what is it worth?

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

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

It has been a long time since philosophers have read men's souls. It is not their task, we are told. Perhaps. But we must not be surprised if they no longer matter much to us.

The only way of enduring one disaster after the next is to love the very idea of disaster: if we succeed, there are no further surprises, we are superior to whatever occurs, we are invincible victims.

Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.