Each concession we make is accompanied by an inner diminution of which we are not immediately conscious.

True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.

Doubt works deep within you like a disease or, even more effectively, like a faith.

Life without utopia is suffocating, for the multitude at least: threatened otherwise with petrifaction, the world must have a new madness.

My mission is to suffer for all those who suffer without knowing it. I must pay for them, expiate their unconsciousness, their luck to be ignorant of how unhappy they are.

I feel completely detached from any country, any group. I am a metaphysically displaced person