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

What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?

To read is to let someone else work for you - the most delicate form of exploitation.

Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?

He who hates himself is not humble.

I foresee the day when we shall read nothing but telegrams and prayers.

Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again.