By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.
What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.
It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
What are you waiting for in order to give up?
Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.
If we manage to last in spite of everything, it is because our infirmities are so many and so contradictory that they cancel each other out.