To live... in any sense of the word... is to reject others; to accept them, one must renounce, do oneself violence.
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
Basis of society: anonymous sweat.
What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?
He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.
Society: an inferno of saviors!
Between the demand to be clear,and the temptation to be obscure, impossible to decide which deserves more respect.
Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.
Never to have occasion to take a position, to make up one's mind, or to define oneself - there is no wish I make more often.
One cannot live without motives. I have no motives left, and I am living.
The universal view melts things into a blur.
To act is to anchor in the imminent future.
What are you waiting for in order to give up?
The importance of insomnia is so colossal that I am tempted to define man as the animal who cannot sleep. Why call him a rational animal when other animals are equally reasonable? But there is not another animal in the entire creation that wants to sleep yet cannot.
Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?
Life inspires more dread than death - it is life which is the great unknown.
If we had the courage to confront the doubts we timidly conceive about ourselves, none of us would utter an 'I' without shame.
Normal people have nothing to forget.
Philosophy is a corrective against sadness. Yet there still are people who believe in the profundity of philosophy!
The source of our actions resides in an unconscious propensity to regard ourselves as the center, the cause, and the conclusion of time. Our reflexes and our pride transform into a planet the parcel of flesh and consciousness we are.
Psychoanalysis is a technique we practice at our cost; psychoanalysis degrades our risks, our dangers, our depths; it strips us of our impurities, of all that made us curious about ourselves.
By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?
My mission is to suffer for all those who suffer without knowing it. I must pay for them, expiate their unconsciousness, their luck to be ignorant of how unhappy they are.
I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity.
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