Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself.

We derive our vitality from our store of madness.

The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.

By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.

Self-conscious rejection of the absolute is the best way to resist God; thus illusion, the substance of life, is saved.

Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?

Insomnia is a vertiginous lucidity that can convert paradise itself into a place of torture.