I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

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.

Lucidity's task: to attain a correct despair, an Olympian ferocity.

Criticism is a misconception: we must read not to understand others but to understand ourselves.

The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live - moreover, the only one.

To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression. I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of ataraxy.