When love ceases to be tragic it is something else and the individual again throws himself in search of tragedy.

The need to be right is the sign of a vulgar mind.

...the habit of despair is worse than despair itself.

I can feel this heart inside me and I conclude it exists. I can touch this world and I also conclude that it exists. All my knowledge ends at this point. The rest is hypothesis.

I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world.

Powerful, yes, that is the word that I constantly rolled on my tongue, I dreamed of absolute power, the kind that forces others tokneel, that forces the enemy to capitulate, finally converting him, and the more the enemy is blind, cruel, sure of himself, buried in his conviction, the more his admission proclaims the royalty of he who has brought on his defeat.

If the world were clear, art would not exist.