Old age, after all, is merely the punishment for having lived.

What is pity but the vice of kindness.

Consider love: is there a nobler outpouring, a rapture less suspect? Its shudders rival music, compete with the tears of solitude and of ecstasy: sublime...but a sublimity inseperable from the urinary tract: transports bordering upon excretion, a heaven of the glands, sudden sancitity of the orifices. It takes no more than a moment of attention for this intoxication, shaken, to cast you back into the ordures of physiology or a moment of fatigue to recognize that so much ardor produces only a variety of mucous.

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

A self-respecting man is a man without a country. A fatherland is birdlime.

That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.

It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.