We are afraid of the enormity of the possible.

As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.

Never to have occasion to take a position, to make up one's mind, or to define oneself - there is no wish I make more often.

Better to be an animal than a man, an insect than an animal, a plant than an insect, and so on. Salvation? Whatever diminishes the kingdom of consciousness and compromises its supremacy.

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

Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.

Boredom dismantles the mind, renders it superficial, out at the seams, saps it from within and dislocates it.