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

Illusion begets and sustains the world; we do not destroy one without destroying the other. Which is what I do every day. An apparently ineffectual operation, since I must begin all over again the next day.

On Creating — What we crave, what we want to see in others eyes, is that servile expression, an unconcealed infatuation with our gestures.

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?

To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?

By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?

Skepticism is the elegance of anxiety.