Busy remaking the world, man forgot to remake himself.
My trouble is insomnia. If I had always slept properly, I'd never have written a line.
I was a hundred-percent sick, I felt as if I had no further use for my legs, they just hung over the edge of my bed like unimportant and rather ridiculous objects.
Most people die at the last minute; others twenty years beforehand, some even earlier. They are the wretched of the earth.
I hadn't found out yet that mankind consists of two very different races, the rich and the poor. It took me. . . and plenty of other people. . . twenty years and the war to learn to stick to my class and ask the price of things before touching them, let alone setting my heart on them.
To travel is very useful, it makes the imagination work, the rest is just delusion and pain. Our journey is entirely imaginary, which is its strength.
The mind is satisfied with phrased, but not the body, the body is more fastidious, it wants muscles. A body always tells the truth, that's why it's usually depressing and disgusting to look at.
No person, possession, profession, or position ever fills the cup of a wounded, empty heart. It's an emptiness only God can fill.
Can we come to the point where we can accept the impossible strivings that we have, the utter inability to ever fulfill our narcissistic megalomania, and then go on to live our lives and accept our disturbing thoughts? We need to accept our vulnerabilities and have love for our imperfections. If you can want what you have, I think you're on your way.
Life is like a cucumber. One minute it's in your hand, the next it's up you ass.
Anyway, there's something wrong with everybody and it's up to you to know what you can handle.