Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve of those who are a little fed up with the world.

Now abideth beauty, truth, and intensity; but the greatest of these is intensity.

I am for the muscles. I would like to have a lot of muscles, because women like it. I'm for bodybuilding, but it's very exhausting.

Father died last year. I don't subscribe to the theory by which we only become truly adult when our parents die; we never become truly adult.

A source of permanent, accessible pleasure, our genitals exist. The god who created our misfortune, who made us short-lived, vain and cruel, has also provided this form of meagre compensation. If we couldn't have sex from time to time, what would life be? A futile struggle against joints that stiffen, caries that form. All of which, moreover, is as uninteresting as humanly possible - the collagen which makes muscles stiffen, the appearance of microbic cavities in the gums.

In reality, the monotheist texts preach neither peace, love nor tolerance. They are texts of hate.

The absence of the will to live is, alas, not sufficient to make one want to die.