"When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: "Why?" He replied: "Because no one admired me.

He will not do death the honor of taking it into account.

He hated suicides. ... Was suicide just the coward's refuge from some black despair? Or was it in its way an act of courage that revealed a perverted sort of valour? Not that, though. So many other lives were intertwined: no burdens were shed — they were merely passed from the shoulders of one to those of another.

He hated the idea of eulogizing himself. Some tasks are best left to others, surely including obituaries.

It would have been so pointless to kill himself that, even if he had wanted to, the pointlessness would have made him unable.

I for one find a casual destruction of a man's life even more repugnant than a determined one.

He could only consider me as the living corpse of a would-be suicide, a person dead to shame, an idiot ghost.

To be a serviceable man has always seemed to me something quite repulsive.

Still, he could not think of the mass of Moroccans without contempt. He had no patience with their ignorance and backwardness; if he damned the Europeans with one breath, he was bound to damn the Moroccans with the next. No one escaped but him, and that was because he hated himself most of all.

Er erweist dem Tod nicht die Ehre.

Men dislike being awakened from their death in life.

it was odd, he thought, that a man could hate himself as though he were someone else.

He feared neither God, nor devil, nor man, nor wind, nor sea, nor his own conscience. And I believe he hated everybody and everything. But I think he was afraid to die. I believe I am the only man who ever stood up to him.

A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.