Basis of society: anonymous sweat.

The universal view melts things into a blur.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.

Do I look like someone who has something to do here on earth?' —That's what I'd like to answer the busybodies who inquire into my activities.

You are done for - a living dead man - not when you stop loving but stop hating. Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the mystery of life.

Our first intuitions are the true ones.

The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live - moreover, the only one.

Impossible to spend sleepless nights and accomplish anything: if, in my youth, my parents had not financed my insomnias, I should surely have killed myself.

The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.

The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.

Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists. The others, having no reason to live, why would they have any to die?

Sometimes, sleepers turn up as common people who do everyday things, and create a new destiny for themselves when nobody’s watching.

Put on a sweater.

Looking back, my greatest regret is not that I didn't love them enough (to the brink of insanity and back again), but that I couldn't save them from themselves.

Your soul isn't in your body; your body is in your soul!

After a stronghold has been made of the bones, it is covered with flesh and blood, and there dwell in it old age and death, pride and deceit.

I love songs that have a rocking and grooving feeling.

It really takes a hero to live any kind of spiritual life without religious belief.

Do as you like--if you know what it is.

You get into an elevator and there's music playing. You hear it, but you're not into it. That is passive.

People don't remember each tree in a park but all of us benefit from the trees. And in a way, artists are like trees in a park.