A book is a suicide postponed.

Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.

Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.

Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.

The deepest and most organic death is death in solitude, when even light becomes a principle of death. In such moments you will be severed from life, from love, smiles, friends and even from death. And you will ask yourself if there is anything besides the nothingness of the world and your own nothingness.

All that shimmers on the surface of the world, all that we call interesting, is the fruit of ignorance and inebriation.