When every man has realized that his birth is a defeat, existence, endurable at last, will seem like the day after a surrender, like the relief and the repose of the conquered.

A sudden silence in the middle of a conversation suddenly brings us back to essentials: it reveals how dearly we must pay for the invention of speech.

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

Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all.

Better to be an animal than a man, an insect than an animal, a plant than an insect, and so on. Salvation? Whatever diminishes the kingdom of consciousness and compromises its supremacy.

Boredom dismantles the mind, renders it superficial, out at the seams, saps it from within and dislocates it.

Consciousness is much more than the thorn, it is the dagger in the flesh.