For a long time—always, in fact—I have known that life here on earth is not what I needed and that I wasn’t able to deal with it; for this reason and for this reason alone, I have acquired a touch of spiritual pride, so that my existence seems to me the degradation and the erosion of a psalm.

Paradise was unendurable, otherwise the first man would have adapted to it; this world is no less so, since here we regret paradise or anticipate another one. What to do? Where to go? Do nothing and go nowhere, easy enough.

Skepticism is the sadism of embittered souls.

Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.

We have convictions only if we have studied nothing thoroughly.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

Wisdom disguises our wounds; it teaches us how to bleed in secret.