I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

The world gave one so many reasons to be pissed off at it.

You’re awful.” “I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful.

[L]e monde même vous désabuse du monde.

I am so beastly tired of mankind and the world that nothing can interest me unless it contains a couple of murders on each page or deals with the horrors unnameable and unaccountable that leer down from the external universes.

the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.)

That's the trouble with the world. We all despise ourselves.

The whole drama of the world is such tragedy that I am weary of the spectacle.

Sometimes I feel so sick at the state of the world I can't even finish my second apple pie.

O Heaven! Today I am sick and tired
Of the colors and forms of this world! ...
I close my eyes to disregard the present,
Gradually shifting into the past upon my eyelids.
I close my eyes to let the dark shadows arise boundlessly,
Immense as in the deep of night,
To let my soul grow dark with the artificial,
In the world of the dead so long awaited.
Let the shades of ghosts and demons one by one appear.
Let their cries, their shouts of epilogue, reverberate in my ear.
Let me roll about, my soul intoxicated with illusion,
To put out of mind for a few minutes the scenes of this world!
Let my soul soar rapidly over great distances
In the dark night shadows of my eyelids,
And proudly assert: Here is a world
Created in a moment of grief.

I believe that the gods themselves are frightened of the world which they have fashioned.

I exhaust myself terribly to content the world, and never manage to content myself.

The world, as it is now, wants to die, wants to perish — and it will.

Piss on the world, or it’ll piss on you.