He who hates himself is not humble.

A decadent civilization compromises with its disease, cherishes the virus infecting it, loses its self-respect.

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

Basis of society: anonymous sweat.

I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.

To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten.

Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.