All that makes a lunatic are the very ordinary ideas of mankind shut up inside a man's head.

Our journey is entirely imaginary. That is its strength.

There is no rest for the humble except in despising the great, whose only thought of the people is inspired by self-interest or sadism.

The novel can't compete with cars, the movies, television, and liquor. A guy who's had a good feed and tanked up on good wine gives his old lady a kiss after supper and his day is over. Finished.

Not much music left inside us for life to dance to. Our youth has gone to the ends of the earth to die in the silence of the truth. And where, I ask you, can a man escape to, when he hasn't enough madness left inside him? The truth is an endless death agony. The truth is death. You have to choose: death or lies. I've never been able to kill myself.

People avenge themselves for the favors done them.

Philosophizing is simply one way of being afraid, a cowardly pretense that doesn't get you anywhere.