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

By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?

Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?

Afflicted with existence, each man endures like an animal the consequences which proceed from it. Thus, in a world where everything is detestable, hatred becomes huger than the world and, having transcended its object, cancels itself out.

Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!

Each of us must pay for the slightest damage he inflicts upon a universe created for indifference and stagnation, sooner or later, he will regret not having left it intact.

Read day and night, devour books - these sleeping pills - not to know but to forget! Through books you can retrace your way back to the origins of spleen, discarding history and its illusions.