The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

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.

Tears do not burn except in solitude.

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

To live entirely without a goal! I have glimpsed this state, and have often attained it, without managing to remain there: I am too weak for such happiness.

We have convictions only if we have studied nothing thoroughly.

The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.