When you have understood that nothing is, that things do not even deserve the status of appearances, you no longer need to be saved, you are saved, and miserable forever.

As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.

A decadent civilization compromises with its disease, cherishes the virus infecting it, loses its self-respect.

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

What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?

To defy heredity is to defy billions of years, to defy the first cell

Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.