And leaning out the window, enjoying the day above the varying volume of the entire city, only one thought swells my soul – the intimate will to die, to finish, not to see more light over any city, not to think, not to feel, to leave behind like wrapping paper the course of the sun and the days, to rid myself, at the edge of the grand bed, as of a heavy suit, of the involuntary effort to be.

Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.

Action men are the unvoluntary slaves of wise men.

Myth is the nothing that is all.

To think is to destroy. The very process of thought indicates it for the same thought, as thinking is decomposing.

Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all ends and purposes and intentions.

Life is whatever we conceive it to be.