Nothing is so wearing as the possession or abuse of liberty.

We define only out of despair, we must have a formula... to give a facade tot he void.

To read is to let someone else work for you - the most delicate form of exploitation.

Everything turns on pain; the rest is accessory, even nonexistent, for we remember only what hurts. Painful sensations being the only real ones, it is virtually useless to experience others.

Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.

Reality is a creation of our excesses.

Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?