Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.

I saw that philosophy had no power to make my life more bearable. Thus I lost my belief in philosophy.

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?

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

Skepticism is the elegance of anxiety.

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

To live entirely without a goal! I have glimpsed this state, and have often attained it, without managing to remain there: I am too weak for such happiness.