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

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.

Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.

I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.

I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.

I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.

There is not much difference between a mortal man and a dying man. The absurdity of making plans is only slightly more obvious in the second case.