That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.

We inhabit a language rather than a country.

A book is a suicide postponed.

Society is not a disease, it is a disaster. What a stupid miracle that one can live in it.

To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.

All great ideas should be followed by an exclamation mark - a warning signal similar to the skull and crossbones drawn on high-voltage transformers.

At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.