The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.

Only by avoiding the beginning of things can we escape their end.

For what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?

The man who is master of his passions is Reason's slave.

Sheep with a nasty side.

Slums may well be breeding grounds of crime, but middle class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.

A mutually fulfilled sexual union between two people is the rarest sensation which life can provide. But it is not quite real. It stops when the telephone rings. Such a passion can be kept at its early strength only by adding to it either more and more unhappiness (jealousy, separation, doubt, renunciation), or more and more artificiality (drink, technique, stage-illusions). Whoever has missed this has never lived, who lives for it alone is but partly alive.