Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.

I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity.

Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.

Suffering makes you live time in detail, moment after moment. Which is to say that it exists for you: over the others, the ones who don't suffer, time flows, so that they don't live in time, in fact they never have.

Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.

The fear of being deceived is the vulgar version of the quest for Truth.

To devastate by language, to blow up the word and with it the world.