I construct my memories with my present. I am lost, abandoned in the present. I try in vain to rejoin the past: I cannot escape.

I do not feel that I am the product of chance, a speck of dust in the universe, but someone who was expected, prepared, prefigured. In short, a being whom only a Creator could put here; and this idea of a creating hand refers to God.

I am no longer sure of anything. If I satiate my desires, I sin but I deliver myself from them; if I refuse to satisfy them, they infect the whole soul.

I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.

I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity.

The more absurd life is, the more insupportable death is.

Consciousness is a being the nature of which is to be conscious of the nothingness of its being.