Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.
The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live –moreover, the only one.
Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
To live entirely without a goal! I have glimpsed this state, and have often attained it, without managing to remain there: I am too weak for such happiness.
Nu pot fi eu insumi decat daca ma inalt pana la furie sau cobor pana la descurajare: la nivelul meu obisnuit, ignor faptul ca exist.
As long as one believes in philosophy, one is healthy; sickness begins when one starts to think.
The only successful philosophies and religions are the ones that flatter us, whether in the name of progress or of hell. Damned or not, man experiences an absolute need to be at the heart of everything.
The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live-moreover, the only one.
Think of God and not religion, of ecstasy and not mysticism. The difference between the theoretician of faith and the believer is as great as between the psychiatrist and the psychotic.
Between Ennui and Ecstasy unwinds our whole experience of time.
Fear of death is merely the projection into the future of a fear which dates back to our first moment of life.
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.
Each of us must pay for the slightest damage he inflicts upon a universe created for indifference and stagnation, sooner or later, he will regret not having left it intact.
If there is anyone who owes everything to Bach, it is certainly God.
For the normal man, life is an undisputed reality; only the sick man is delighted by life and praises it so that he won’t collapse.
I foresee the day when we shall read nothing but telegrams and prayers.
The sense that everything is going wrong has existed in every era, and rightly so since men have found no greater pleasure than in inventing new ways to make each other miserable.
True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.
Compassion is a sign of superficiality: broken destinies and unrelenting misery either make you scream or turn you to stone.
We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job…
It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.
The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.
How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
What they ask you for is actions, proofs, works, and all you can produce are transformed tears.
One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language. That is our country, our fatherland – and no other.
That there should be a reality hidden behind appearances is, after all, quite possible; that language might render such a thing would be an absurd hope.
Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?
Memories vanish when we want to remember, but fix themselves permanently in the mind when we want to forget.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve utterly destroyed within myself the pride of being human. And I saunter to the periphery of the Race like a timorous monster, lacking the energy to claim kinship with some other band of apes.
The contact between beings is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.
Only god has the privilege of abandoning us. Men can only drop us
We are born to Exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.
The more we frequent men, the blacker our thoughts; and when, to clarify them, we return to our solitude, we find there the shadow they have cast.
The cynicism of utter solitude is a calvary relieved by insolence.
the deepest subjective experiences are also the most universal, because through them one reaches the universal source of life.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.
Progress is the injustice each generation commits with regard to its predecessor.
Ambition is a drug that turns it’s addicts into potential madmen.
Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.
As incompetent in life as in death, I loathe myself and in this loathing I dream of another life, another death. And for having sought to be a sage such as never was, I am only a madman among the mad . . .
I believe in the salvation of humanity, in the future of cyanide…
Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.
My soul is chaos, how can it be at all? There is everything in me: search and you will find out … in me anything is possible, for I am he who at the supreme moment, in front of absolute nothingness, will laugh.
It is an understatement to say that in this society injustices abound: In truth it is itself the quintessence of injustice.