If there is anyone who owes everything to Bach, it is certainly God.

Knowledge, having irritated and stimulated our appetite for power, will lead us inexorably to our ruin.

A self-respecting man is a man without a country. A fatherland is birdlime.

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?

The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.

What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?

When every man has realized that his birth is a defeat, existence, endurable at last, will seem like the day after a surrender, like the relief and the repose of the conquered.