What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.

No human beings more dangerous than those who have suffered for a belief: the great persecutors are recruited from the martyrs not quite beheaded. Far from diminishing the appetite for power, suffering exasperates it.

We are so lonely in life that we must ask ourselves if the loneliness of dying is not a symbol of our human existence.

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.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

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

That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.