Torment, for some men, is a need, an appetite, and an accomplishment.

Life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry stricken with epilepsy.

We are all geniuses when we dream.

Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.

Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?

Vague a l'ame - melancholy yearning for the end of the world.

I foresee the day when we shall read nothing but telegrams and prayers.