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

In most cases we attach ourselves to in order to take revenge on life, to punish it, to signify we can do without it, that we have found something better, and we also attach ourselves to God in horror of men.

Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.

History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.

If each of us were to confess his most secret desire, the one that inspires all his plans, all his actions, he would say: "I want to be praised."

It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.

An individual dies ... when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.