Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.

Anyone who speaks in the name of others is always an impostor.

We die in proportion to the words we fling around us.

Each of us is born with a share of purity, predestined to be corrupted by our commerce with mankind, by that sin against solitude.

Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.

Reality is a creation of our excesses.

Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.

Life inspires more dread than death - it is life which is the great unknown.

Society is not a disease, it is a disaster. What a stupid miracle that one can live in it.

What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name - and moving on.