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

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.

Each time I fail to think about death, I have the impression of cheating, of deceiving someone in me.

Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists. The others, having no reason to live, why would they have any to die?

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.

You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.