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.
Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.
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.
Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.
Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
Each of us must pay for the slightest damage he inflicts upon a universe created for indifference and stagnation, sooner or later, he will regret not having left it intact.
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!
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.
Lucidity's task: to attain a correct despair, an Olympian ferocity.
What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!
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.
Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.
The capital phenomenon, the most catastrophic disaster, is uninterrupted sleeplessness, that nothingness without release.
The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.
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.
I have no nationality - the best possible status for an intellectual.
Under each formula lies a corpse.
An aphorism? Fire without flames. Understandable that no one tries to warm himself at it.
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