Impossible to spend sleepless nights and accomplish anything: if, in my youth, my parents had not financed my insomnias, I should surely have killed myself.

I'm simply an accident. Why take it all so seriously?

Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.

Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all.

The wise man, the sage, is hostile to the new. Disabused, he abdicates: that is his form of protest.

Self-conscious rejection of the absolute is the best way to resist God; thus illusion, the substance of life, is saved.

It is enough for me to hear someone talk sincerely about ideals, about the future, about philosophy, to hear him say “we" with a certain inflection of assurance, to hear him invoke "others" and regard himself as their interpreter - for me to consider him my enemy.