The wise man, the sage, is hostile to the new. Disabused, he abdicates: that is his form of protest.

Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.

We are so lonely in life that we must ask ourselves if the loneliness of dying is not a symbol of our human existence.

Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.

A golden rule: to leave an incomplete image of oneself.

We die in proportion to the words we fling around us.

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