No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.

Once you see that everything is unreal, you can't see why you should bother to prove it.

Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.

A civilization is destroyed only when its gods are destroyed.

Tyrants are always assassinated too late. That is their great excuse.

I live only because it is in my power to die when I choose to: without the idea of suicide, I'd have killed myself right away.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.