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

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?

For you who no longer possess it, freedom is everything, for us who do, it is merely an illusion.

Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.

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.

Philosophers write for professors; thinkers for writers.

I foresee the day when we shall read nothing but telegrams and prayers.