The truth is paradoxical to the extent of being exactly contrary to the usual perception.

If I want to realize totality in my consciousness, I have to relate myself to an immense, ludicrous, and painful convulsion of all of humanity.

The emotional element which gives an obsessive value to communal existence is death.

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.

Intellectual despair results in neither weakness nor dreams, but in violence. It is only a matter of knowing how to give vent to one's rage; whether one only wants to wander like madmen around prisons, or whether one wants to overturn them.

Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things.

My true church is a whorehouse – the only one that gives me true satisfaction.