Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?

The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.

Criticism is a misconception: we must read not to understand others but to understand ourselves.

One hardly saves a world without ruling it.

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?

If truth were not boring, science would have done away with God long ago. But God as well as the saints is a means to escape the dull banality of truth.

No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.