Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.
We die in proportion to the words we fling around us.
Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.
The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?
Let us not be needlessly bitter: certain failures are sometimes fruitful.
Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.