Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.

The capital phenomenon, the most catastrophic disaster, is uninterrupted sleeplessness, that nothingness without release.

Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.

What a pity that 'nothingness' has been devalued by an abuse of it made by philosophers unworthy of it!

What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

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