Something begins in order to end: an adventure doesn't let itself be extended it achieves significance only through its death.

Ah! How I hate the crimes of the new generation: they are dry and sterile as darnel.

Perhaps its inevitable, perhaps one has to choose between being nothing at all and impersonating what one is.

What's done at night belongs to the night. In the daytime you don't talk about it.

It is not right, my fellow-countrymen, you who know very well all the crimes committed in our name. It's not at all right that you do not breathe a word about them to anyone, not even to your own soul, for fear of having to stand in judgment of yourself. I am willing to believe that at the beginning you did not realize what was happening; later, you doubted whether such things could be true; but now you know, and still you hold your tongues.

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

Everything is gratuitous, this garden, this city and myself. When you suddenly realize it, it makes you feel sick and everything begins to drift . . . that's nausea.