One must never look for happiness: one meets it by the way.

I study life by being close to it, this “native life” about which so little is known, and which is so disfigured by the descriptions of those who, not knowing it, insist on describing it anyway.

Crime, particularly among the poor and downtrodden, is often a last gesture of liberty.

Never give your soul to a creature, because it belongs to God alone; see in all creatures a motive for rejoicing, in homage to the Creator; never seek yourself in another, but discover yourself in yourself.

One must use the weapons one finds in one’s path.

No prayers, no medicines, merely the ineffable happiness of dying.

While to live in the past and think of what was good and beautiful about it amounts to a sort of seasoning of the present, the perennial wait for tomorrow is bound to result in chronic discontent that poisons one’s entire outlook.

For now it seems that by advancing into unknown territories, I entered into my life.

I feel alone, free, and detached from everything in the world, and I’m happy.

The farther behind I leave the past, the closer I am to forging my own character.