But how nothingness invades us! We are scarcely born ere decay begins for us, in such a way that the whole of life is but one long combat with it, more and more triumphant, on its part, to the consummation, namely, death; and then the reign of decay is exclusive.
To return to antiquity [in literature]: that has been done. To return to the Middle Ages: that too has been done. Remains the present day. But the ground is shaky: so where can you set the foundations? An answer to this question must be found if one is to produce anything vital and hence lasting. All this disturbs me so much that I no longer like to be spoken to about it.
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
The one way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in literature as in a perpetual orgy.
received the cross of the Legion of Honour.
The sight of so many ruins destroys any desire to build shanties; all this ancient dust makes one indifferent to fame.
When you are some-‘one’, why would you wish to be some-‘thing’?
Nothing is more humiliating than to see idiots succeed in enterprises we have failed in.
The next day was, for Emma, a dismal one. Everything seemed enveloped in a black atmosphere that hovered indistinctly over the exterior of things, and sorrow rushed into her soul, moaning softly like the winter wind in abandoned manor houses. It was the sort of reverie you sink into over something that will never return again, the lassitude that overcomes you with each thing that is finished, the pain you suffer when any habitual motion is stopped, when a prolonged vibration abruptly ceases.
I can’t believe that our body, composed as it is of mud and shit and equipped with instincts lower than those of the pig or the crab-louse, contains anything pure and immaterial