Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.
Models of style: the swearword, the telegram, the epitaph.
He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.
The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.
The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperment of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.
Each of us believes, quite unconsciously of course, that we alone pursue the truth, which the rest are incapable of seeking out and unworthy of attaining. This madness is so deep-rooted and so useful that it is impossible to realize what would become of each of us if it were someday to disappear.