The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

The only sin is the sin of being born

To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.

And on the threshold of being no more I succeed in being another.

Ah earth you old extinguisher.

I shall soon be quite dead at last in spite of all.

One day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second.