The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.

Criticism is a misconception: we must read not to understand others but to understand ourselves.

That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.

In most cases we attach ourselves to in order to take revenge on life, to punish it, to signify we can do without it, that we have found something better, and we also attach ourselves to God in horror of men.

If we manage to last in spite of everything, it is because our infirmities are so many and so contradictory that they cancel each other out.

I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.

When people come to me saying they want to kill themselves, I tell them, "What’s your rush? You can kill yourself any time you like. So calm down. Suicide is a positive act." And they do calm down.