By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.

Life without utopia is suffocating, for the multitude at least: threatened otherwise with petrifaction, the world must have a new madness.

What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.

Nothing sweeter than to drag oneself along behind events; and nothing more reasonable. But without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture. Reason: the rust of our vitality. It is the madman in us who forces us to adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost; everything depends on him, even our vegetative life; it is he who invites us, who obliges us to breathe, and it is also he who forces our blood to venture through our veins. Once he withdraws, we are alone indeed! We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.

What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you - what a revelation.

A marvel that has nothing to offer, democracy is at once a nation's paradise and its tomb.

We derive our vitality from our store of madness.