If truth were not boring, science would have done away with God long ago. But God as well as the saints is a means to escape the dull banality of truth.
A book is a suicide postponed.
We are all geniuses when we dream.
Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.
The truly solitary being is not the man who is abandoned by men, but the man who suffers in their midst, who drags his desert through the marketplace and deploys his talents as a smiling leper, a mountebank of the irreparable.
I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.
To live entirely without a goal! I have glimpsed this state, and have often attained it, without managing to remain there: I am too weak for such happiness.
It is because we are all impostors that we endure each other. The man who does not consent to lie will see the earth shrink under his feet: we are biologically obliged to the false
What are you waiting for in order to give up?
Thinking should be like musical meditation. Has any philosopher pursued a thought to its limits the way Bach or Beethoven develop and exhaust a musical theme? Even after having read the most profound thinkers, one still feels the need to begin anew. Only music gives definitive answers.
Much more than our other needs and endeavors, it is sexuality that puts us on an even footing with our kind: the more we practice it, the more we become like everyone else: it is in the performance of a reputedly bestial function that we prove our status as citizens: nothing is more public than the sexual act.
There is only one thing worse than boredom, and that is the fear of boredom.
Time is heavy sometimes; imagine how heavy eternity must be.
Consider love: is there a nobler outpouring, a rapture less suspect? Its shudders rival music, compete with the tears of solitude and of ecstasy: sublime...but a sublimity inseperable from the urinary tract: transports bordering upon excretion, a heaven of the glands, sudden sancitity of the orifices. It takes no more than a moment of attention for this intoxication, shaken, to cast you back into the ordures of physiology or a moment of fatigue to recognize that so much ardor produces only a variety of mucous.
The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.
You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.
He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.
No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.
Transmitting one's flaws [through procreation] to someone else is a crime. I could never consent to give life to someone who would inherent my ailments.
To live... in any sense of the word... is to reject others; to accept them, one must renounce, do oneself violence.
History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.
The limit of every pain is an even greater pain.
We would not be interested in human beings if we did not have the hope of someday meeting someone worse off than ourselves.
All philosophers should end their days at Pythia's feet. There is only one philosophy, that of unique moments.
By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?
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