To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)

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.

And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.

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.

I'm going to end a life that I thought could contain every kind of greatness but that in fact consisted only of my incapacity to really want to be great. Whenever I arrived at a certainty, I remembered that those with the greatest certainties are lunatics.

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

Wise is he who enjoys the show offered by the world.