It takes time to live. Like any work of art, life needs to be thought about.

Everybody knows that pestilences have a way of recurring in the world; yet somehow we find it hard to believe in ones that crash down on our heads from a blue sky.

Empires and churches are born under the sun of death.

If the only significant history of human thought were to be written, it would have to be the history of its successive regrets and its impotences.

Don't lies eventually lead to the truth? And don't all my stories, true or false, tend toward the same conclusion? Don't they all have the same meaning? So what does it matter whether they are true or false if, in both cases, they are significant of what I have been and what I am? Sometimes it is easier to see clearly into the liar than into the man who tells the truth. Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object.

It is always easy to be logical. It is almost impossible to be logical to the bitter end.

After awhile you could get used to anything.