Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things.

The circumstances of my life are paralyzing.

A judgment about life has no meaning except the truth of the one who speaks last, and the mind is at ease only at the moment when everyone is shouting at once and no one can hear a thing.

Eroticism is assenting to life even in death.

The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.

It is clear that the world is purely parodic, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form.

Thought does not ennoble us and neither does it differentiate humans from other animals.