My thought is me: that is why I cannot stop thinking. I exist because I think I cannot keep from thinking.
Introspection is always retrospection.
Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that’s all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.
Death is a continuation of my life without me...
Some of these days, Oh, you’ll miss me honey.
It is disgusting – Why must we have bodies?
I construct my memories with my present. I am lost, abandoned in the present. I try in vain to rejoin the past: I cannot escape.
I enjoy feeling fastidious and aloof. I enjoy saying no, always no, and I should be afraid of any attempt to construct a finally habitable world, because I should merely have to say – Yes; and act like other people.
Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.
My eyes feel all soft, all soft as flesh. I’m going to sleep.
A madman’s ravings are absurd in relation to the situation in which he finds himself, but not in relation to his madness.
Existence is not something which lets itself be thought of form a distance; it must invade you suddenly, master you, weigh heavily on your heart like a great motionless beast – or else there is nothing at all.
A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution.
I wanted pure love: foolishness; to love one another is to hate a common enemy: I will thus espouse your hatred. I wanted Good: nonsense; on this earth and in these times, Good and Bad are inseparable: I accept to be evil in order to become good.
It is too early to love. We will buy the right to do so by shedding blood.
Nothingness haunts Being.
It’s the well-behaved children that make the most formidable revolutionaries. They don’t say a word, they don’t hide under the table, they eat only one piece of chocolate at a time. But later on, they make society pay dearly.
Time is too large, it can’t be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates.
I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.
To know what life is worth you have to risk it once in a while.