By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.

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

To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten.

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

We are all deep in a hell each moment of which is a miracle.

No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.

Afflicted with existence, each man endures like an animal the consequences which proceed from it. Thus, in a world where everything is detestable, hatred becomes huger than the world and, having transcended its object, cancels itself out.