I seem to myself, among civilized men, an intruder, a troglodyte enamored of decrepitude, plunged into subversive prayers.

Reality is a creation of our excesses.

If just once you were depressed for no reason, you have been so all your life without knowing.

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

Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.

My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.

I do not want to see BP nickel and diming these businesses that are having a tough time.