The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.

To travel is very useful, it makes the imagination work, the rest is just delusion and pain. Our journey is entirely imaginary, which is its strength.

Most people die at the last minute; others twenty years beforehand, some even earlier. They are the wretched of the earth.

The whole business of your life overwhelms you when you live alone. One's stupefied by it. To get rid of it you try to daub some of it off on to people who come to see you, and they hate that. To be alone trains one for death.

The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.

You can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past.

The sadness of the world has different ways of getting to people, but it seems to succeed almost every time.