One doesn't live in a country, one lives in a language.
What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?
Glory - once achieved, what is it worth?
Every thought derives from a thwarted sensation.
No position is so false as having understood and still remaining alive.
The fear of being deceived is the vulgar version of the quest for Truth.