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

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?

What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labor of verification.

To possess a high degree of consciousness, to be always aware of yourself in relation to the world, to live in the permanent tension of knowledge, means to be lost for life.

As far as I am concerned, I resign from humanity. I no longer want to be, nor can still be, a man. What should I do? Work for a social and political system, make a girl miserable? Hunt for weaknesses in philosophical systems, fight for moral and esthetic ideals? It’s all too little. I renounce my humanity even though I may find myself alone. But am I not already alone in this world from which I no longer expect anything?

My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.