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

For you who no longer posses it, freedom is everything, for us who do, it is merely an illusion.

The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.

Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.

Knowledge, having irritated and stimulated our appetite for power, will lead us inexorably to our ruin.

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