Life is too full of death for death to be able to add anything to it.

Sadness makes you God's prisoner.

Music is everything. God himself is nothing more than an acoustic hallucination.

The only interesting philosophers are the ones who have stopped thinking and have begun to search for happiness.

The initial revelation of any monastery: everything is nothing. Thus begin all mysticisms. It is less than one step from nothing to God, for God is the positive expression of nothingness.

Love of the absolute engenders a predilection for self-destruction. Hence the passion for monasteries and brothels. Cells and women, in both cases. Weariness with life fares well in the shadow of whores and saintly women.

Self-conscious rejection of the absolute is the best way to resist God; thus illusion, the substance of life, is saved.

All that is Life in me urges me to give up God.

To win the guilty kiss of a saint, I'd welcome the plague as a blessing

The poor maidservant who used to say that she only believed in God when she had a toothache puts all theologians to shame.

A harmonious being cannot believe in God. Saints, criminals, and paupers have launched him, making him available to all unhappy people.

The more one is obsessed with God, the less one is innocent. Nobody bothered about him in paradise. The fall brought about this divine torture. It's not possible to be conscious of divinity without guilt. Thus God is rarely to be found in an innocent soul.

There are no solutions, only cowardice masquerading as such.

To live in a saint's heart? I'm afraid of setting the sky ablaze.

...all of the philosophers put together are not worth a single saint.

All philosophers should end their days at Pythia's feet. There is only one philosophy, that of unique moments.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity... Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

I don't understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.

Time is heavy sometimes; imagine how heavy eternity must be.

Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection.

To suffer is the great modality of taking the world seriously.

A regret understood by no one: the regret to be a pessimist. It's not easy to be on the wrong foot with life

The reaction against your own thought in itself lends life to thought. How this reaction is born is hard to describe, because it identifies with the very rare intellectual tragedies. - The tension, the degree and level of intensity of a thought proceeds from its internal antinomies, which in turn are derived from the unsolvable contradictions of a soul. Thought cannot solve the contradictions of the soul. As far as linear thinking is concerned, thoughts mirror themselves in other thoughts, instead of mirroring a destiny.

That fear which gives birth to thoughts, and the fear of thoughts...

To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style; a walk that gives cadence to memories; stepping towards the intangible; with the breath in the trembling margins of things; the past reborn in the overflow of fragrances; the smell, through which we conquer time; the contour of the invisible things; the forms of the immaterial; to deepen yourself in the intangible; to touch the world airborne by smell; aerial dialogue and gliding dissolution; to bathe in your own reflecting fragmentation...

As long as one believes in philosophy, one is healthy; sickness begins when one starts to think.

A heart without music is like beauty without melancholy.

Saints live in flames; wise men, next to them.

Consciousness is nature's nightmare.

This world was created from God's fear of solitude. In other words, us, the creatures, have no other meaning but to distract the Creator. Poor clowns of the absolute, we forget that we live dramas for the boredom of a spectator, whose claps have never reached the ears of a mortal.

What am I, other than a chance in the infinite probabilities of not having been!

Only thoughts that are randomly born die. The other thoughts we carry with us without knowing them. They have abandoned themselves to forgetfulness so that they can be with us all the time.

Detachment from the world as an attachment to the ego... Who can realize the detachment in which you are as far away from yourself as you are from the world?

At the edge of life you feel that you are no longer master of the life within you, that subjectivity is an illusion, and that uncontrollable forces are seething inside you, evolving with no relation to a personal center or a definite, individual rhythm.