Life lobs us into the air like a stone, and we fly along, saying as we go: You see, I'm moving.
I live always in the present. I know nothing of the future and no longer have a past. The former weighs me down with a thousand possibilities, the latter with the reality of nothingness.
It's like being intoxicated with inertia, drunk but with no enjoyment in the drinking or in the drunkenness.
Let's buy books so as not to read them; let's go to concerts without caring to hear the music or see who's there; let's take long walks because we're sick of walking; and let's spend whole days in the country, just because it bores us.
We all love each other, and the lie is the kiss we exchange.
But someone afflicted by tedium feels himself the prisoner of a futile freedom, in a cell of infinite size.