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

I have all the defects of other people yet everything they do seems to me inconceivable.

One cannot live without motives. I have no motives left, and I am living.

There is not much difference between a mortal man and a dying man. The absurdity of making plans is only slightly more obvious in the second case.

After having struggled madly to solve all problems, after having suffered on the heights of despair, in the supreme hour of revelation, you will find that the only answer, the only reality, is silence.

He who hates himself is not humble.

Nothing sweeter than to drag oneself along behind events; and nothing more reasonable. But without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture. Reason: the rust of our vitality. It is the madman in us who forces us to adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost; everything depends on him, even our vegetative life; it is he who invites us, who obliges us to breathe, and it is also he who forces our blood to venture through our veins. Once he withdraws, we are alone indeed! We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.