What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name - and moving on.

History proves nothing because it contains everything.

How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history - greater than the fall of empires - I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.

No one can keep his griefs in their prime; they use themselves up.

A sensation must have fallen very low to deign to turn into an idea.

Only one thing matters: learning to be the loser.

By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?