Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.

What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?

If I were to be totally sincere, I would say that I do not know why I live and why I do not stop living. The answer probably lies in the irrational character of life which maintains itself without reason.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

There is no limit to suffering.

To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.

To have committed every crime but that of being a father.