Insomnia is a vertiginous lucidity that can convert paradise itself into a place of torture.

Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.

Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all.

The sole means of protecting your solitude is to offend everyone, beginning with those you love.

What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?

Mind, even more deadly to empires than to individuals, erodes them, compromises their solidity.

For you who no longer possess it, freedom is everything, for us who do, it is merely an illusion.