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.

I live only because it is in my power to die when I choose to: without the idea of suicide, I'd have killed myself right away.

What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you - what a revelation.

We die in proportion to the words we fling around us.

An existence transfigured by failure.

To devastate by language, to blow up the word and with it the world.

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