What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labor of verification.
I have decided not to oppose anyone ever again, since I have noticed that I always end by resembling my latest enemy.
Democracy: a festival of mediocrity.
How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history - greater than the fall of empires - I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.
Not to be born is undoubtedly the best plan of all. Unfortunately, it is within no one's reach.
I'm simply an accident. Why take it all so seriously?
Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.
What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.
The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.
Our first intuitions are the true ones.
I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.
Life inspires more dread than death - it is life which is the great unknown.
Consciousness is nature's nightmare.
Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again.
Sometimes I wish I were a cannibal – less for the pleasure of eating someone than for the pleasure of vomiting him.
Nothing sweeter than to drag oneself along behind events; and nothing more reasonable. But without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture. Reason: the rust of our vitality. It is the madman in us who forces us to adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost; everything depends on him, even our vegetative life; it is he who invites us, who obliges us to breathe, and it is also he who forces our blood to venture through our veins. Once he withdraws, we are alone indeed! We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.
Once you see that everything is unreal, you can't see why you should bother to prove it.
Only one thing matters: learning to be the loser.
If each of us were to confess his most secret desire, the one that inspires all his plans, all his actions, he would say: "I want to be praised."
How easy it is to be "deep": all you have to do is let yourself sink into your own flaws.
Humanity adores only those who cause it to perish.
One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.
Death makes no sense except to people who have passionately loved life. How can one die without having something to part from? Detachment is a negation of both life and death. Whoever has overcome his fear of death has also triumphed over life. For life is nothing but another word for this fear.
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.
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