That’s what existence means: draining one’s own self dry without the sense of thirst.

She suffers as a miser. She must be miserly with her pleasures, as well. I wonder if sometimes she doesn't wish she were free of this monotonous sorrow, of these mutterings which start as soon as she stops singing, if she doesn't wish to suffer once and for all, to drown herself in despair. In any case, it would be impossible for her: she is bound.

Why do you keep maintaining your ideas are right if you can't prove them?

When you live alone you no longer know what it is to tell a story: the plausible disappears at the same time as the friends. You let events flow by too: you suddenly see people appear who speak and then go away; you plunge into stories of which you can't make head or tail: you'd make a terrible witness.

Fascism is not defined by the number of its victims, but by the way it kills them.

My pessimism has never been flabby.

There is no human nature, since there is no god to conceive it.