Without will, no conflict: no tragedy among the abulic. Yet the failure of will can be experienced more painfully than a tragic destiny.

The world begins and ends with us. Only our consciousness exists, it is everything, and this everything vanishes with it. Dying, we leave nothing. Then why so much fuss around an event that is no such thing?

Is it conceivable to adhere to a religion founded by someone else?

By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.

What I know wreaks havoc upon what I want.

In order to deceive melancholy, you must keep moving. Once you stop, it wakens, if in fact it has ever dozed off.

If you don't want to explode with rage, leave your memory alone, abstain from burrowing there.

The reasons for persisting in Being seem less and less well founded, and our successors will find it easier than we to be rid of such obstinacy.

When we have no further desire to show ourselves, we take refuge in music, the Providence of the abulic.

Never unreal, Pain is a challenge to the universal fiction. What luck to be the only sensation granted a content, if not a meaning!