There was a time when time did not yet exist.

By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.

No matter which way we go, it is no better than any other. It is all the same whether you achieve something or not, have faith or not, just as it is all the same whether you cry or remain silent.

We would not be interested in human beings if we did not have the hope of someday meeting someone worse off than ourselves.

Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?

Far from diminishing the appetite for power, suffering exasperates it.

He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.