I feel completely detached from any country, any group. I am a metaphysically displaced person.
I live only because it is in my power to die when I choose to: without the idea of suicide, I’d have killed myself right away.
By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?
There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher’s the poet’s equal there.
We are afraid of the enormity of the possible.
Jealousy – that jumble of secret worship and ostensible aversion.
Old age, after all, is merely the punishment for having lived.
What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.
Life inspires more dread than death – it is life which is the great unknown.
The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.
Only one thing matters: learning to be the loser.
Ambition is a drug that makes its addicts potential madmen.
Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.
I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass – which is better than trying to fill them.
We must learn how to explode! Any disease is healthier than the one provoked by a hoarded rage.
If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.
The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.
To accomplish nothing and die of the strain.
Let us not be needlessly bitter: certain failures are sometimes fruitful.