What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?

I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.

Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.

Speech and silence. We feel safer with a madman who talks than with one who cannot open his mouth.

At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.

It is because we are all impostors that we endure each other. The man who does not consent to lie will see the earth shrink under his feet: we are biologically obliged to the false

One doesn't live in a country, one lives in a language.