Those who weep for the happy periods which they encounter in history acknowledge what they want; not the alleviation but the silencing of misery.

Every authentic work of art is a gift offered to the future.

Somebody has to have the last word. If not, every argument could be opposed by another and we'd never be done with it.

In a universe suddenly divested of illusion and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land.

If we believe in nothing, if nothing has any meaning and if we can affirm no values whatsoever, then everything is possible and nothing has any importance.

One grows out of pity when it's useless.

[Liberty] is a choreand a long-distance race, quite solitary, quite exhausting.