I turn and turn in my cell like a fly that doesn't know where to die.

The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born

What are the "maximum" limits of acceptance of the term "intellectual"?

Pessimism of the spirit; optimism of the will.

The old is dying and the new cannot be born. In this interregnum there arises a great diversity of morbid symptoms.

How many times have I wondered if it is really possible to forge links with a mass of people when one has never had strong feelings for anyone, not even one's own parents: if it is possible to have a collectivity when one has not been deeply loved oneself by individual human creatures. Hasn't this had some effect on my life as a militant--has it not tended to make me sterile and reduce my quality as a revolutionary by making everything a matter of pure intellect, of pure mathematical calculation?

Is it better to work out consciously and critically one's own conception of the world and thus, in connection with the labours of one's own brain, choose one's sphere of activity, take an active part in the creation of the history of the world, be one's own guide, refusing to accept passively and supinely from outside the moulding of one' own personality?