Humanity adores only those who cause it to perish.

No human beings are more dangerous than those who have suffered for a belief

How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history - greater than the fall of empires - I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.

I have all the defects of other people yet everything they do seems to me inconceivable.

Never to have occasion to take a position, to make up one's mind, or to define oneself - there is no wish I make more often.

What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name - and moving on.

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?