We interest others by the misfortune we spread around us.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.

Every form of talent involves a certain shameless-ness.

The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.

Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.

Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.