Il y a tant de souffrance dans ce jeu de recherche d'un partenaire, il faut éprouver, essayer. Et soudain l'on s'aperçoit qu'on a oublié que c'était un jeu : on s'en détourne en larmes.

Everything is possible and yet nothing is. All is permitted and yet again, nothing. No matter which way we go, it is no better than any other. It is all the same whether you achieve something or not, have faith or not, … whether you cry or remain silent. There is an explanation for everything, and yet there is none. Everything is both real and unreal, normal and absurd, splendid and insipid. There is nothing worth more than something else, nor any idea better than another. Why grow sad from one’s sadness and delight in one’s joy? … Love your unhappiness and hate your happiness. Mix everything up. … All gain is a loss, and all loss is a gain. Why always expect a definite stance, clear ideas, meaningful words?

Killing yourself amounts to confessing. It is confessing that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it… It is merely confessing that it ‘is not worth the trouble.’ Living, naturally, is never easy. You continue making the gestures commanded by existence for many reasons, the first of which is habit. Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous character of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation and the uselessness of suffering.