The source of our actions resides in an unconscious propensity to regard ourselves as the center, the cause, and the conclusion of time. Our reflexes and our pride transform into a planet the parcel of flesh and consciousness we are.

An aphorism? Fire without flames. Understandable that no one tries to warm himself at it.

The sole means of protecting your solitude is to offend everyone, beginning with those you love.

Crime in full glory consolidates authority by the sacred fear it inspires.

Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.

Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.

Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.