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.
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.
What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.
Tolerance cannot seduce the young.
To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.
What a pity that 'nothingness' has been devalued by an abuse of it made by philosophers unworthy of it!
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.
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.
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.
Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
Fear can supplant our real problems only to the extent -unwilling either to assimilate or to exhaust it -we perpetuate it within ourselves like a temptation and enthrone it at the very heart of our solitude.
Philosophers write for professors; thinkers for writers.
The premonition of madness is complicated by the fear of lucidity in madness, the fear of the moments of return and reunion... One would welcome chaos if one were not afraid of lights in it.
If just once you were depressed for no reason, you have been so all your life without knowing.
Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!
Lucidity's task: to attain a correct despair, an Olympian ferocity.
Impossible to spend sleepless nights and accomplish anything: if, in my youth, my parents had not financed my insomnias, I should surely have killed myself.
The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.
Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.
For a long time—always, in fact—I have known that life here on earth is not what I needed and that I wasn’t able to deal with it; for this reason and for this reason alone, I have acquired a touch of spiritual pride, so that my existence seems to me the degradation and the erosion of a psalm.
Under each formula lies a corpse.
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