The task of the solitary man is to be even more solitary.

Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.

Word - that invisible dagger.

What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.

I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.

Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.

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