Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.

The capital phenomenon, the most catastrophic disaster, is uninterrupted sleeplessness, that nothingness without release.

What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?

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

Under each formula lies a corpse.

There was a time when time did not yet exist. … The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.

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.