The presence of death annihilates all superstitions. We are the children of death, and it is death that rescues us from the deceptions of life. In the midst of life he calls us and summons us to him.

I write only for my shadow which is cast on the wall in front of the light. I must introduce myself to it.

Ugh! How many stories about love, copulation, marriage and death already exist, not one of which tells the truth! How sick I am of well-constructed plots and brilliant writing!

[Death is] the best asylum for pains and sorrows and troubles and the injustices of life.

I thought to myself: if it’s true that every person has a star in the sky, mine must be distant, dim, and absurd. Perhaps I never had a star.

Only death does not lie.

What relationship could exist between the lives of the fools and healthy rabble who were well, who slept well, who performed the sexual act well, who had never felt the wings of death on their face every moment - what relationship could exist between them and one like me who has arrived at the end of his rope and who knows that he will pass away gradually and tragically?