Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?

As far as I am concerned, I resign from humanity. I no longer want to be, nor can still be, a man. What should I do? Work for a social and political system, make a girl miserable? Hunt for weaknesses in philosophical systems, fight for moral and esthetic ideals? It’s all too little. I renounce my humanity even though I may find myself alone. But am I not already alone in this world from which I no longer expect anything?

Not one moment when I have not been conscious of being outside Paradise.

However much I have frequented the mystics, deep down I have always sided with the Devil; unable to equal him in power, I have tried to be worthy of him, at least, in insolence, acrimony, arbitrariness and caprice.

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

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

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?