The more we frequent men, the blacker our thoughts; and when, to clarify them, we return to our solitude, we find there the shadow they have cast.

The cynicism of utter solitude is a calvary relieved by insolence.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve utterly destroyed within myself the pride of being human. And I saunter to the periphery of the Race like a timorous monster, lacking the energy to claim kinship with some other band of apes.

The best of myself, that point of light which distances me from everything, I owe to my infrequent encounters with a few bitter fools, a few disconsolate bastards, who, victims of the rigor of their cynicism, could no longer attach themselves to any vice.

A little more fervor in my nihilism and I might — gainsaying everything — shake off my doubts and triumph over them. But I have only the taste of negation, not its grace.

Mystery — a word we use to deceive others, to convince them we are "deeper" than they are.

Stoicism for show: to be an enthusiast of nil admirari, an hysteric of ataraxia.

You with your veins full of night — you have no more place among men than an epitaph in the middle of a circus.

Être, c'est être coincé.