Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.
Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.
Humanity adores only those who cause it to perish.
Insomnia is a vertiginous lucidity that can convert paradise itself into a place of torture.
There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.