Hell is other people at breakfast.

I say a murder is abstract. You pull the trigger and after that you do not understand anything that happens.

I can receive nothing more from these tragic solitudes than a little empty purity.

Originally, poetry creates the myth, while the prose-writer draws its portrait.

In life man commits himself and draws his own portrait, outside of which there is nothing. No doubt this thought may seem harsh to someone who has not made a success of his life. But on the other hand, it helps people to understand that reality alone counts, and that dreams, expectations and hopes only serve to define a man as a broken dream, aborted hopes, and futile expectations.

I am alone in the midst of these happy, reasonable voices. All these creatures spend their time explaining, realizing happily that they agree with each other. In Heaven's name, why is it so important to think the same things all together.

Is there really nothing, nothing left of me?