Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

I gave up before birth.

What are we doing here, that is the question.

You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.

Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.