There has never been a time in which I have been convinced from within myself that I am alive. You see, I have only such a fugitive awareness of things around me that I always feel they were once real and are now fleeting away. I have a constant longing, my dear sir, to catch a glimpse of things as they may have been before they show themselves to me.

My life was sweeter than other people's and my death will be more terrible by the same degree.

Like tired dogs they stand there, because they use up all their strength in remaining upright in one's memory.

The existence of the writer is an argument against the existence of the soul, for the soul has obviously taken flight from the real ego, but not improved itself, only become a writer.

Evil is the starry sky of the Good.

Everything you say is boring and incomprehensible, but that alone doesn't make it true.

In the fight between you and the world, back the world.