In our fear, we are victims of an aggression of the Future.

We always love . . . despite; and that "despite" covers an infinity.

The lover who kills himself for a girl has an experience which is more complete and much more profound than the hero who overturns the world.

Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.

For two thousand years, Jesus has revenged himself on us for not having died on a sofa.

The Creation was the first act of sabotage.

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?

Only the idiot is equipped to breathe.

However intimate we may be with the operations of the mind, we cannot think more than two or three minutes a day; — unless, by taste or by profession, we practice, for hours on end, brutalizing words in order to extract ideas from them. The intellectual represents the major disgrace, the culminating failure of Homo sapiens.

To hope is to contradict the future.