Knowledge, having irritated and stimulated our appetite for power, will lead us inexorably to our ruin.

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.

You are done for - a living dead man - not when you stop loving but stop hating. Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the mystery of life.

At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.

Great persecutors are recruited among martyrs whose heads haven't been cut off.

I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.

He who hates himself is not humble.