What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?

It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.

One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.

I have no nationality - the best possible status for an intellectual.

Nothing proves that we are more than nothing.

I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.