Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.
If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.
I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.
The sole means of protecting your solitude is to offend everyone, beginning with those you love.
Democracy: a festival of mediocrity.
I have decided not to oppose anyone ever again, since I have noticed that I always end by resembling my latest enemy.
Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself.
I feel completely detached from any country, any group. I am a metaphysically displaced person
Better to be an animal than a man, an insect than an animal, a plant than an insect, and so on. Salvation? Whatever diminishes the kingdom of consciousness and compromises its supremacy.
Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.
Skepticism is the elegance of anxiety.
My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.
Only one thing matters: learning to be the loser.
This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this and I do not. Everything is unique - and insignificant.
Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.
Consciousness is nature's nightmare.
After having struggled madly to solve all problems, after having suffered on the heights of despair, in the supreme hour of revelation, you will find that the only answer, the only reality, is silence.
The only way of enduring one disaster after the next is to love the very idea of disaster: if we succeed, there are no further surprises, we are superior to whatever occurs, we are invincible victims.
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.
Transmitting one's flaws [through procreation] to someone else is a crime. I could never consent to give life to someone who would inherent my ailments.
It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
Nothing sweeter than to drag oneself along behind events; and nothing more reasonable. But without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture. Reason: the rust of our vitality. It is the madman in us who forces us to adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost; everything depends on him, even our vegetative life; it is he who invites us, who obliges us to breathe, and it is also he who forces our blood to venture through our veins. Once he withdraws, we are alone indeed! We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.
What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.
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