Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.

To venture upon an undertaking of any kind, even the most insignificant, is to sacrifice to envy.

Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.

Normal people have nothing to forget.

In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.

The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.

Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.