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.

Old age, after all, is merely the punishment for having lived.

True contact between beings is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.

Our first intuitions are the true ones.

All the concessions we make to Eros are holes in our desire for the absolute.

Freedom can be manifested only in the void of beliefs, in the absence of axioms, and only where the laws have no more authority than a hypothesis.

We must suffer to the end, to the moment when we stop believing in suffering.