To exist is a habit I do not despair of acquiring.
The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.
It is enough for me to hear someone talk sincerely about ideals, about the future, about philosophy, to hear him say “we" with a certain inflection of assurance, to hear him invoke "others" and regard himself as their interpreter - for me to consider him my enemy.
Skepticism is the elegance of anxiety.
The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.