When rich people fight wars with one another, poor people are the ones to die.

Everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident

One could only damage oneself through the harm one did to others. One could never get directly at oneself.

The universe remains dark. We are animals struck by catastrophe.

So much torture, bloodshed, deceit. You cannot make your young people practice torture twenty-four hours a day and not expect to pay a price for it.

A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness...and suddenly the “I” pales, pales, and fades out.

I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of out time - the time of purple suspenders, and broken chair seats; it is made of white, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years.