Time is heavy sometimes; imagine how heavy eternity must be.

What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!

To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression. I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of ataraxy.

There was a time when time did not yet exist.

Everything turns on pain; the rest is accessory, even nonexistent, for we remember only what hurts. Painful sensations being the only real ones, it is virtually useless to experience others.

Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.

Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.