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

No one can keep his griefs in their prime; they use themselves up.

Doubt works deep within you like a disease or, even more effectively, like a faith.

There is no limit to suffering.

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.

All philosophers should end their days at Pythia's feet. There is only one philosophy, that of unique moments.

We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.