The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.

Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?

A horse is freedom so indominable that it becomes useless to imprison it to serve man: it lets itself be domesticated, but with a simple, rebellious toss of the head-shaking its mane like an abundance of free-flowing hair-it shows that its inner nature is always wild, translucent and free.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

Even great men are only truly recognized and honored once they are dead. Why? Because those who praise them need to feel themselves somehow superior to the person praised, they need to feel they are making some concession.

I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.