Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.
All people see fires, storms, explosions, or landscapes; but how many feel the flames, the lightnings, the whirlwinds, or the harmony? How many have an inner beauty that tinges their melancholy?
Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
Society: an inferno of saviors!
What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?
Basis of society: anonymous sweat.
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.
He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.
One cannot live without motives. I have no motives left, and I am living.
Life inspires more dread than death - it is life which is the great unknown.
The universal view melts things into a blur.
Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?
To act is to anchor in the imminent future.
What are you waiting for in order to give up?
Normal people have nothing to forget.
If we had the courage to confront the doubts we timidly conceive about ourselves, none of us would utter an 'I' without shame.
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.
To possess a high degree of consciousness, to be always aware of yourself in relation to the world, to live in the permanent tension of knowledge, means to be lost for life.
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.
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.
Philosophy is a corrective against sadness. Yet there still are people who believe in the profundity of philosophy!
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