What a pity that 'nothingness' has been devalued by an abuse of it made by philosophers unworthy of it!

In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.

There is no limit to suffering.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

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

The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.

What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?