Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.

Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!

This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this and I do not. Everything is unique - and insignificant.

"The Holy Ghost," Luther instructs us, "is not a skeptic." Not everyone can be, and that is really too bad.

Mind, even more deadly to empires than to individuals, erodes them, compromises their solidity.

The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.