The Universe Appears To Me Like An

Wherever He Goes, Whatever He Does, He Will Always See That Word: Murder—immortally Inscribed Upon The Pediment Of That Vast Slaughterhouse—humanity.

The Universe Appears To Me Like An Immense, Inexorable Torture-garden…passions, Greed, Hatred, And Lies; Social Institutions, Justice, Love, Glory, Heroism, And Religion: These Are Its Monstrous Flowers And Its Hideous Instruments Of Eternal Human Suffering.

Solitude Does Not Consist In Living Alone; It Consists In Living With Others, With People Who Take No Interest In You.

As Soon As I Find Myself In The Presence Of A Rich Man, I Cannot Help Looking Upon Him As An Exceptional And Beautiful Being, As A Sort Of Marvellous Divinity, And, In Spite Of Myself, Surmounting My Will And My Reason, I Feel Rising, From The Depths Of My Being, Toward This Rich Man, Who Is Very Often An Imbecile, And Sometimes A Murderer, Something Like An Incense Of Admiration. Is It Not Stupid? And Why? Why?

Nothing Comes At All -- Never Anything. And I Cannot Accustom Myself To That. It Is This Monotony, This Absolute Fixity In Life, That Is The Hardest Thing For Me To Endure. I Should Like To Go Away From Here. Go Away? But Where And How? I Do Not Know, And I Stay.