How hard it is, how bitter it is to become a man!

Does the end justify the means? That is possible. But what will justify the end? To that question, which historical thought leaves pending, rebellion replies: the means.

Art and revolt will die only with the last man.

There is in me an anarchy and frightful disorder. Creating makes me die a thousand deaths, because it means making order, and my entire being rebels against order. But without it I would die, scattered to the winds.

Death means nothing to men like me. It's the event that proves them right.

Happiness is not everything and men have their duties. Mine is to find my mother, a homeland

To create is likewise to give a shape to one's fate