To Hope Is To Contradict The Future.

Our Works, Whatever They May Be, Derive From Our Incapacity To Kill Or To Kill Ourselves.

Wherever We Go, We Come Up Against The Human, A Repulsive Ubiquity Before Which We Fall Into Stupor And Revolt, A Perplexity On Fire.

Better To Be An Animal Than A Man, An Insect Than An Animal, A Plant Than An Insect, And So On. Salvation? Whatever Diminishes The Kingdom Of Consciousness And Compromises Its Supremacy.

Ennui Is The Echo In Us Of Time Tearing Itself Apart.

The True Hero Fights And Dies In The Name Of His Destiny, And Not In The Name Of A Belief.