But how could you live and have no story to tell?

Killing myself was a matter of such indifference to me that I felt like waiting for a moment when it would make some difference.

Every ant knows the formula of its ant-hill, every bee knows the formula of its beehive. They know it in their own way, not in our way. Only humankind does not know its own formula.

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment, before a word is spoken.

As for me, this is my story: I worked and was tortured. You know what it means to compose? No, thank God, you do not! I believe you have never written to order, by the yard, and have never experienced that hellish torture.

That's always the way with fanatics; they cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple.

To be too conscious is an illness. A real thorough going illness.