Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.

Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.

Those who believe in their truth -- the only ones whose imprint is retained by the memory of men -- leave the earth behind them strewn with corpses. Religions number in their ledgers more murders than the bloodiest tyrannies account for, and those whom humanity has called divine far surpass the most conscientious murderers in their thirst for slaughter.

I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.

Crime in full glory consolidates authority by the sacred fear it inspires.

No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.