Only superficial minds approach an idea with delicacy.

Life without utopia is suffocating, for the multitude at least: threatened otherwise with petrifaction, the world must have a new madness.

Each time I fail to think about death, I have the impression of cheating, of deceiving someone in me.

Ideas come as you walk, Nietzsche said. Walking dissipates thoughts, Shankara taught.

If we manage to last in spite of everything, it is because our infirmities are so many and so contradictory that they cancel each other out.

Our place is somewhere between being and nonbeing - between two fictions.

To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression. I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of ataraxy.