He who has never envied the vegetable has missed the human drama.

What music appeals to in us it is difficult to know; what we do know is that music reaches a zone so deep that madness itself cannot penetrate there.

No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.

The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.

In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.

He who hates himself is not humble.

If we had the courage to confront the doubts we timidly conceive about ourselves, none of us would utter an 'I' without shame.