No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.
Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.
That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.
Utopia is the grotesque en rose, the need to associate happiness - that is, the improbable - with becoming, and to coerce an optimistic, aerial vision to the point where it rejoins its own source: the very cynicism it sought to combat. In short, a monstrous fantasy.
Life without utopia is suffocating, for the multitude at least: threatened otherwise with petrifaction, the world must have a new madness.
The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
One doesn't live in a country, one lives in a language.
What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?
I do not want to see BP nickel and diming these businesses that are having a tough time.
"The Holy Ghost," Luther instructs us, "is not a skeptic." Not everyone can be, and that is really too bad.
Boredom dismantles the mind, renders it superficial, out at the seams, saps it from within and dislocates it.
To exist is a habit I do not despair of acquiring.
Tolerance - the function of an extinguished ardor - tolerance cannot seduce the young.
In order to have the stuff of a tyrant, a certain mental derangement is necessary.
We are all deep in a hell each moment of which is a miracle.
A sensation must have fallen very low to deign to turn into an idea.
The fear of being deceived is the vulgar version of the quest for Truth.
A sudden silence in the middle of a conversation suddenly brings us back to essentials: it reveals how dearly we must pay for the invention of speech.
Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.
The task of the solitary man is to be even more solitary.
The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.
Freedom can be manifested only in the void of beliefs, in the absence of axioms, and only where the laws have no more authority than a hypothesis.
Tolerance cannot seduce the young.
As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.
Only one endowed with restless vitality is susceptible to pessimism. You become a pessimist-a demonic, elemental, bestial pessimist-only when life has been defeated many times in its fight against depression.
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