Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

Paradise was unendurable, otherwise the first man would have adapted to it; this world is no less so, since here we regret paradise or anticipate another one. What to do? Where to go? Do nothing and go nowhere, easy enough.

Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?

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

Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

"The Holy Ghost," Luther instructs us, "is not a skeptic." Not everyone can be, and that is really too bad.

To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten.