The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from. That is why true artists scorn nothing: they are obliged to understand rather than to judge.

An intellectual? Yes. And never deny it. An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. I like this, because I am happy to be both halves, the watcher and the watched. "Can they be brought together?" This is a practical question. We must get down to it. "I despise intelligence" really means: "I cannot bear my doubts.

If nothing had any meaning, you would be right. But there is something that still has a meaning.

Truth, like light is dazzling. By contrast, untruth is a beautiful sunset that enhances everything.

The world is unimportant and whoever recognizes this conquers his liberty.

Nature is a burning and frigid, transparent and limited universe in which nothing is possible but everything is given.

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.