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

I foresee the day when we shall read nothing but telegrams and prayers.

All people see fires, storms, explosions, or landscapes; but how many feel the flames, the lightnings, the whirlwinds, or the harmony? How many have an inner beauty that tinges their melancholy?

Life inspires more dread than death - it is life which is the great unknown.

How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live - moreover, the only one.