Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
All people see fires, storms, explosions, or landscapes; but how many feel the flames, the lightnings, the whirlwinds, or the harmony? How many have an inner beauty that tinges their melancholy?
Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
To live... in any sense of the word... is to reject others; to accept them, one must renounce, do oneself violence.
Society: an inferno of saviors!
History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.
Between the demand to be clear,and the temptation to be obscure, impossible to decide which deserves more respect.
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.
Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.
Never to have occasion to take a position, to make up one's mind, or to define oneself - there is no wish I make more often.
The universal view melts things into a blur.
One cannot live without motives. I have no motives left, and I am living.
To act is to anchor in the imminent future.
What are you waiting for in order to give up?
Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?
Far from diminishing the appetite for power, suffering exasperates it.
Philosophy is a corrective against sadness. Yet there still are people who believe in the profundity of philosophy!
If we had the courage to confront the doubts we timidly conceive about ourselves, none of us would utter an 'I' without shame.
Life inspires more dread than death - it is life which is the great unknown.
The source of our actions resides in an unconscious propensity to regard ourselves as the center, the cause, and the conclusion of time. Our reflexes and our pride transform into a planet the parcel of flesh and consciousness we are.
Psychoanalysis is a technique we practice at our cost; psychoanalysis degrades our risks, our dangers, our depths; it strips us of our impurities, of all that made us curious about ourselves.
My mission is to suffer for all those who suffer without knowing it. I must pay for them, expiate their unconsciousness, their luck to be ignorant of how unhappy they are.
Normal people have nothing to forget.
By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.
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