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

I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.

What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.

The more one has suffered, the less one demands. To protest is a sign one has traversed no hell.

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

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.