The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.
As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.
Only one endowed with restless vitality is susceptible to pessimism. You become a pessimist-a demonic, elemental, bestial pessimist-only when life has been defeated many times in its fight against depression.
Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.
What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.
Each of us must pay for the slightest damage he inflicts upon a universe created for indifference and stagnation, sooner or later, he will regret not having left it intact.
To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.
What a pity that 'nothingness' has been devalued by an abuse of it made by philosophers unworthy of it!
Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
Philosophers write for professors; thinkers for writers.
The premonition of madness is complicated by the fear of lucidity in madness, the fear of the moments of return and reunion... One would welcome chaos if one were not afraid of lights in it.
If just once you were depressed for no reason, you have been so all your life without knowing.
Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
Lucidity's task: to attain a correct despair, an Olympian ferocity.
What strangely enchanted tunes gush forth during those sleepless nights!
Impossible to spend sleepless nights and accomplish anything: if, in my youth, my parents had not financed my insomnias, I should surely have killed myself.
An aphorism? Fire without flames. Understandable that no one tries to warm himself at it.
For a long time—always, in fact—I have known that life here on earth is not what I needed and that I wasn’t able to deal with it; for this reason and for this reason alone, I have acquired a touch of spiritual pride, so that my existence seems to me the degradation and the erosion of a psalm.
I have no nationality - the best possible status for an intellectual.
Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.
Under each formula lies a corpse.
The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.
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