Life hurls us like a stone, and we sail through the air saying, "look at me move.

What can I expect from myself? My sensation in all their horrible acuity, and a profound awareness of feeling. A sharp mind that only destroys me, and an unusual capacity for dreaming to keep me entertained. A dead will and a reflection that cradles it, like a living child. From, The Book of Disquiet

The world belongs to who doesn't feel. The primary condition to be a practical man is the absence of sensitivity.

But do we really live? To live without knowing what life is - is that living?

Giving importance to what we think because we thought it, taking our own selves not only (to quote the Greek philosopher) as the measure of all things but as their norm or standard, we create in ourselves, if not an interpretation, at least a criticism of the universe, which we don't even know and therefore cannot criticize. The giddiest, most weak-minded of us then promote that criticism to an interpretation that's superimposed, like a hallucination; induced rather than deduced. It's a hallucination in the strict sense, being an illusion based on something only dimly seen.

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

pg 9, "The consciousness of life's unconsciousness is the oldest tax levied on the intelligence.