It’s noble to be timid, illustrious to fail to act, sublime to be inept at living.

Only Tedium, which is a withdrawal, and Art, which is a disdain, gild with a semblance of contentment our .....

The will-o’-the-wisps generated by our rotting lives are at least a light in our darkness.

Only unhappiness is elevating, and only the tedium that comes from unhappiness is heraldic like the descendants of ancient heroes.

I’m a well of gestures that haven’t even all been traced in my mind, of words I haven’t even thought to form on my lips, of dreams I forgot to dream to the end.

I’m the ruins of buildings that were never more than ruins, whose builder, halfway through, got tired of thinking about what he was building.

Let’s not forget to hate those who enjoy, just because they enjoy, and to despise those who are happy, because we didn’t know how to be happy like them. This false disdain and feeble hatred are merely the plinth – rough-hewn and dirtied by the soil where it stands – for the unique and haughty statue of our Tedium, a dark figure whose inscrutable smile gives its face a vague aura of mystery.

Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.