I cannot contribute anything to this world because I only have one method: agony.

Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again.

The source of our actions resides in an unconscious propensity to regard ourselves as the center, the cause, and the conclusion of time. Our reflexes and our pride transform into a planet the parcel of flesh and consciousness we are.

The fear of being deceived is the vulgar version of the quest for Truth.

The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.

I have decided not to oppose anyone ever again, since I have noticed that I always end by resembling my latest enemy.

Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.