No matter which way we go, it is no better than any other. It is all the same whether you achieve something or not, have faith or not, just as it is all the same whether you cry or remain silent.
I don’t understand why we must do things in this world, why we must have friends and aspirations, hopes and dreams. Wouldn’t it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world, where all its noise and complications would be heard no more? Then we could renounce culture and ambitions; we would lose everything and gain nothing; for what is there to be gained from this world?
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.
Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself.
I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.
The only way of enduring one disaster after the next is to love the very idea of disaster: if we succeed, there are no further surprises, we are superior to whatever occurs, we are invincible victims.
One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.
Beware of thinkers whose minds function only when they are fueled by a quotation.
Better to be an animal than a man, an insect than an animal, a plant than an insect, and so on. Salvation? Whatever diminishes the kingdom of consciousness and compromises its supremacy.
There was a time when time did not yet exist.
Only one thing matters: learning to be the loser.
Basis of society: anonymous sweat.
The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.
If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.
An individual dies ... when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.
All that shimmers on the surface of the world, all that we call interesting, is the fruit of ignorance and inebriation.
How easy it is to be "deep": all you have to do is let yourself sink into your own flaws.
Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.
Nothing sweeter than to drag oneself along behind events; and nothing more reasonable. But without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture. Reason: the rust of our vitality. It is the madman in us who forces us to adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost; everything depends on him, even our vegetative life; it is he who invites us, who obliges us to breathe, and it is also he who forces our blood to venture through our veins. Once he withdraws, we are alone indeed! We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.
We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.
Our first intuitions are the true ones.
Everything is pathology, except for indifference.
Skepticism is the elegance of anxiety.
Discretion is deadly to genius; ruinous to talent.
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