...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.

You are never truly together with one you love until the person in question is dead and actually inside you.

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.

Women were like rivers, their banks were unreachable, the night often rang with the cries of the drowned.

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

Instead of committing suicide, people go to work.

Everyone is a virtuoso on his own instrument, but together they add up to an intolerable cacophony.