There's no lack of void.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

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 write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.

It's a lot to ask of one creature, it's a lot to ask, that he should first behave as if he were not, then as if he were, before being admitted to that peace where he neither is, nor is not, and where the language dies that permits of such expressions.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.