Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.
Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.
In most cases we attach ourselves to in order to take revenge on life, to punish it, to signify we can do without it, that we have found something better, and we also attach ourselves to God in horror of men.
Good health is the best weapon against religion. Healthy bodies and healthy minds have never been shaken by religious fears.
Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.
It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
Not to be born is undoubtedly the best plan of all. Unfortunately, it is within no one’s reach.
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.