We are born to Exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.

There is no means of proving it is preferable to be than not to be.

Not to be obliged, like so many others, to choose between the insipid and the atrocious.

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?

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.