We are all deep in a hell each moment of which is a miracle.

We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.

The curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing now but mask and ghost.

The true hero fights and dies in the name of his destiny, and not in the name of a belief.

For a long time—always, in fact—I have known that life here on earth is not what I needed and that I wasn’t able to deal with it; for this reason and for this reason alone, I have acquired a touch of spiritual pride, so that my existence seems to me the degradation and the erosion of a psalm.

Those who believe in their truth -- the only ones whose imprint is retained by the memory of men -- leave the earth behind them strewn with corpses. Religions number in their ledgers more murders than the bloodiest tyrannies account for, and those whom humanity has called divine far surpass the most conscientious murderers in their thirst for slaughter.

Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.