The unnatural and the strange have a perfume of their own

Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.

I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist. I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.

There's a tiredness of abstract inteligence, and it's the most horrible of tirednesses. It doesn't weight on you like the tiredness of the body, nor does it worry you like the tiredness of knowledge and emotion. It's a weightiness of the conscience of the world, an inability of the soul to breathe.

For a long time now I haven't existed. I'm utterly calm. No one distinguishes me from who I am. I just felt myself breath as if I'd done something new, or done it late. I'm beginning to be conscious of being conscious. Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up to myself and resume the course of my existence. I don't know if that will make more happy or less. I don't know anything.

To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.

To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.