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

Each concession we make is accompanied by an inner diminution of which we are not immediately conscious.

We derive our vitality from our store of madness.

The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.

My mission is to suffer for all those who suffer without knowing it. I must pay for them, expiate their unconsciousness, their luck to be ignorant of how unhappy they are.

The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live - moreover, the only one.

A decadent civilization compromises with its disease, cherishes the virus infecting it, loses its self-respect.