Hell is other people at breakfast.

One is still what one is going to cease to be and already what one is going to become. One lives one's death, one dies one's life.

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

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.

Some of these days, Oh, you'll miss me honey

One can ask why the I has to appear in the cogito {Descartes’ argument “I think therefore I am.}, since the cogito, if used rightly, is the awareness of pure consciousness, not directed at any fact or action. In fact the I is not necessary here, since it is never united directly to consciousness. One can even imagine a pure and self-aware consciousness which thinks of itself as impersonal spontaneity.

As far as men go, it is not what they are that interests me, but what they can become.