Book: Immoralist

If I have nothing to be afraid of them, and have nothing to learn from them.

Ah, if everyone around us could see it! But most of them hoped to get myself something good only by coercion; they are like ourselves only maimed. Everyone tries to look less like himself. Each invents a host, then imitates it; he doesn't choose a host which imitates; he accepts the already specified host. However, I think it's different to read in person. But dare not. Do not dare to turn the page. The laws of imitation; I call them laws of fear. A person is afraid to remain alone; and not finding himself. This moral agoraphobia disgust me; it's the worst kind of cowardice. Meanwhile, always creates a single. But who here wants to create? The fact that I feel different from others, it is a rarity possessed; she gives each its own value, and that is what everyone is trying to destroy. Imitate. And I think that I love life.

How many people, who claimed something, owe their power to the fact that, fortunately, did not understand them perfectly!

- Don't pray for me, Marceline.
Why? she asked, a little bewildered.
I don't like patronage.
- You refuse God's help?
After He would be entitled to my gratitude. This creates an obligation, and I don't want them.

The best human creations inevitably breathe sorrow. What would a story about happiness? Only what prepares it, then what destroys it, is subject to story.

Perhaps this need lies weighed me slightly; but I quickly came to believe that the worst things (lying, for example, not to mention the other) difficult only as long as their doing, but each of them, and very soon becomes a comfortable, enjoyable, easy to repeat and soon completely natural. As in all things, the initial aversion to which defeated, I finished that began to find pleasure in the deception, to get involved in it as a game of mine, still unknown to me, abilities.

Be able to be released, it is nothing, it is difficult to be able to be free.

Nothing can be more tragic for him who thought to die than a slow recovery. After the man touched the wing of death, what seemed important, ceases to be; other things are important that they did not seem and the existence of which he didn't even know. The accumulation of all acquired knowledge is erased from the soul, like paint, and sometimes the exposed skin, now, before the hidden being.