If it is true that by death we once more become what we were before being, would it not have been better to abide by that pure possibility, not to stir from it? What use was this detour, when we might have remained forever in an unrealized plenitude?

To exist is a state as little conceivable as its contrary. No, still more inconceivable.

Everything that is engenders, sooner or later, nightmares. Let us try, therefore, to invent something better than being.

An existence constantly transfigured by failure.

There are tears which pierce through the earth and rise as stars in other skies. I wonder who has wept our stars?