We have convictions only if we have studied nothing thoroughly.
We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.
I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.
It is enough for me to hear someone talk sincerely about ideals, about the future, about philosophy, to hear him say “we" with a certain inflection of assurance, to hear him invoke "others" and regard himself as their interpreter - for me to consider him my enemy.
I have all the defects of other people yet everything they do seems to me inconceivable.
True contact between beings is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.
This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this and I do not. Everything is unique - and insignificant.
Existing is plagiarism.
Our place is somewhere between being and nonbeing - between two fictions.
Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.
There was a time when time did not yet exist.
Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.
I would like to go mad on one condition, namely, that I would become a happy madman, lively and always in a good mood, without any troubles and obsessions, laughing senselessly from morning to night.
To accomplish nothing and die of the strain
Everything is pathology, except for indifference.
For you who no longer possess it, freedom is everything, for us who do, it is merely an illusion.
Do I look like someone who has something to do here on earth?' —That's what I'd like to answer the busybodies who inquire into my activities.
How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
The importance of insomnia is so colossal that I am tempted to define man as the animal who cannot sleep. Why call him a rational animal when other animals are equally reasonable? But there is not another animal in the entire creation that wants to sleep yet cannot.
Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?
However much I have frequented the mystics, deep down I have always sided with the Devil; unable to equal him in power, I have tried to be worthy of him, at least, in insolence, acrimony, arbitrariness and caprice.
He who hates himself is not humble.
Utopia is a mixture of childish rationalism and secularized angelism.
Basis of society: anonymous sweat.
Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.
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