We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept—our own selves—that we love.

I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.

The abstract intelligence produces a fatigue that's the worst of all fatigues. It doesn't weigh on us like bodily fatigue, nor disconcert like the fatigue of emotional experience. It's the weight of our consciousness of the world, a shortness of breath in our soul.

All that I've lived I've forgotten, as if I'd vaguely heard it. All that I'll be reminds me of nothing, as if I'd lived and forgotten it.

To live is to be someone else. Feeling is impossible if we feel today as we felt yesterday: to feel today the same thing we felt yesterday is not to feel at all--it's merely to remember today what we felt yesterday, since today we are the living cadaver of yesterday's lost life.

Ser compreendido é prostituir-se.

Without madness what is man But a wholesome beast, Postponed corpse that begets?