He is always becoming, and if it were not for the contingency of death, he would never end.

I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.

I felt myself in a solitude so frightful that I contemplated suicide. What held me back was the idea that no one, absolutely no one, would be moved by my death, that I would be even more alone in death than in life.

I will take it all: tongs, molten lead, prongs, garrotes, all that burns, all that tears, I want to truly suffer. Better one hundred bites, better the whip, vitriol, than this suffering in the head, this ghost of suffering which grazes and caresses and never hurts enough.

What is life but an unpleasant interruption to a peaceful nonexistence.

There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.

What the painter adds to the canvas are the days of his life. The adventure of living, hurtling toward death.