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.
We inhabit a language rather than a country.
Between Ennui and Ecstasy unwinds our whole experience of time.
One hardly saves a world without ruling it.
The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.
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.
Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.
History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.
Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.
There was a time when time did not yet exist. … The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.
What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you - what a revelation.
Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?
Everything is pathology, except for indifference.
The true hero fights and dies in the name of his destiny, and not in the name of a belief.
If you're unlucky enough not to have alcoholic parents, it takes you a whole lifetime of intoxication to overcome the dead weight of their virtues.
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.
The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.
Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.
I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.
Show me one thing here on earth which has begun well and not ended badly. The proudest palpitations are engulfed in a sewer, where they cease throbbing, as though having reached their natural term: this downfall constitutes the heart's drama and the negative meaning of history.
For you who no longer possess it, freedom is everything, for us who do, it is merely an illusion.
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.
What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?
Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
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