At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise . . . that denseness and that strangeness of the world is absurd.

A loveless world is a dead world.

To be famous, in fact, one has only to kill one's landlady.

We don't have the time to completely be ourselves. We only have the room to be happy.

Here lives a free man. Nobody serves him.

There is no more futile punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

To insure the adoration of a theorem for any length of time, faith is not enough, a police force is needed as well.