Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists. The others, having no reason to live, why would they have any to die?

Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.

A sensation must have fallen very low to deign to turn into an idea.

Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.

Doubt works deep within you like a disease or, even more effectively, like a faith.

An individual dies ... when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.

If we had the courage to confront the doubts we timidly conceive about ourselves, none of us would utter an 'I' without shame.