It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.

True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity.

Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.

We derive our vitality from our store of madness.

Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.

Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.