No destiny attacks us from outside. But, within him, man bears his fate and there comes a moment when he knows himself vulnerable; and then, as in a vertigo, blunder upon blunder lures him.

Sometimes we behave as though there was something more important than life. But what?

You're not a man, you're a mushroom!

I know but one freedom and that is the freedom of the mind.

It is the missed opportunity that counts, and in a love that vainly yearns from behind prison bars you have perchance the love supreme.

In order to cure a feeling of malaise, you have to throw light on it.

What value has compassion that does not take its object in its arms?