I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity.

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

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

As the years pass, the number of those we can communicate with diminishes. When there is no longer anyone to talk to, at last we will be as we were before stooping to a name.

Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.

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

Doubt works deep within you like a disease or, even more effectively, like a faith.