No one can enjoy freedom without trembling.

Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again.

Every form of talent involves a certain shameless-ness.

I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.

Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.

Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists. The others, having no reason to live, why would they have any to die?

Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?