We would not be interested in human beings if we did not have the hope of someday meeting someone worse off than ourselves.
A marvel that has nothing to offer, democracy is at once a nation's paradise and its tomb.
Between Ennui and Ecstasy unwinds our whole experience of time.
There is no means of proving it is preferable to be than not to be.
History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.
Man must vanquish himself, must do himself violence, in order to perform the slightest action untainted by evil.
When you have understood that nothing is, that things do not even deserve the status of appearances, you no longer need to be saved, you are saved, and miserable forever.
Consciousness is much more than the thorn, it is the dagger in the flesh.
We derive our vitality from our store of madness.
Do I look like someone who has something to do here on earth?' —That's what I'd like to answer the busybodies who inquire into my activities.
The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.
A man who fears ridicule will never go far, for good or ill: he remains on this side of this talents, and even if he has genius, he is doomed to mediocrity.
To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?
Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.
We inhabit a language rather than a country.
Not one moment when I have not been conscious of being outside Paradise.
All that shimmers on the surface of the world, all that we call interesting, is the fruit of ignorance and inebriation.
I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.
One hardly saves a world without ruling it.
To live... in any sense of the word... is to reject others; to accept them, one must renounce, do oneself violence.
A book is a suicide postponed.
Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.
Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you - what a revelation.
What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?
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