An individual dies ... when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.

What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?

I have decided not to oppose anyone ever again, since I have noticed that I always end by resembling my latest enemy.

Life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry stricken with epilepsy.

Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.

By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.

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.