Humanity adores only those who cause it to perish.

Pursued by our origins... we all are.

Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.

To accomplish nothing and die of the strain

To exist is equivalent to an act of faith, a protest against the truth, an interminable prayer. As soon as they consent to live, the unbeliever and the man of faith are fundamentally the same, since both have made the only decision that defines a being.

The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.

Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.