Lucidity's task: to attain a correct despair, an Olympian ferocity.

Each of us must pay for the slightest damage he inflicts upon a universe created for indifference and stagnation, sooner or later, he will regret not having left it intact.

Under each formula lies a corpse.

The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.

Consider love: is there a nobler outpouring, a rapture less suspect? Its shudders rival music, compete with the tears of solitude and of ecstasy: sublime...but a sublimity inseperable from the urinary tract: transports bordering upon excretion, a heaven of the glands, sudden sancitity of the orifices. It takes no more than a moment of attention for this intoxication, shaken, to cast you back into the ordures of physiology or a moment of fatigue to recognize that so much ardor produces only a variety of mucous.

God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.

Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself.