Progress is the injustice each generation commits with regard to its predecessors.
To have committed every crime but that of being a father.
The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.
Old age, after all, is merely the punishment for having lived.
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.
You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.