Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

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.

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

Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.

So long as man is protected by madness - he functions - and flourishes.

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