Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.

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

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.

Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.

Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.

Those who believe in their truth -- the only ones whose imprint is retained by the memory of men -- leave the earth behind them strewn with corpses. Religions number in their ledgers more murders than the bloodiest tyrannies account for, and those whom humanity has called divine far surpass the most conscientious murderers in their thirst for slaughter.

It is enough for me to hear someone talk sincerely about ideals, about the future, about philosophy, to hear him say “we" with a certain inflection of assurance, to hear him invoke "others" and regard himself as their interpreter - for me to consider him my enemy.