Our first intuitions are the true ones.

The more we try to rest ourselves from our Egos, the deeper we sink into it.

Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

Consider love: is there a nobler outpouring, a rapture less suspect? Its shudders rival music, compete with the tears of solitude and of ecstasy: sublime...but a sublimity inseperable from the urinary tract: transports bordering upon excretion, a heaven of the glands, sudden sancitity of the orifices. It takes no more than a moment of attention for this intoxication, shaken, to cast you back into the ordures of physiology or a moment of fatigue to recognize that so much ardor produces only a variety of mucous.

All philosophers should end their days at Pythia's feet. There is only one philosophy, that of unique moments.

Wisdom disguises our wounds; it teaches us how to bleed in secret.

Fear can supplant our real problems only to the extent -unwilling either to assimilate or to exhaust it -we perpetuate it within ourselves like a temptation and enthrone it at the very heart of our solitude.