All of living is nothing but a fervid attempt to move closer together.

The study of sickness is the most poetic of the sciences.

The thinking man always finds himself in a gigantic orphanage in which people are continually proving to him that he has no parents.

It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.

...we ask: Why suicide? We search for reasons, causes, and so on.... We follow the course of the life he has now so suddenly terminated as far back as we can. For days we are preoccupied with the question: Why suicide? We recollect details. And yet we must say that everything in the suicide's life- for now we know that all his life he was a suicide, led a suicide's existence- is part of the cause, the reason, for his suicide.

A criminal is undoubtedly a poor soul, who is punished for his poverty.

You've always lived a life of pretense, not a real life-- a simulated existence, not a genuine existence. Everything about you, everything you are, has always been pretense, never genuine, never real.