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

Every form of talent involves a certain shameless-ness.

The more intense a spiritual leader's appetite for power, the more he is concerned to limit it to others.

Basis of society: anonymous sweat.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity… Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

If a man has not, by the time he is thirty, yielded to the fascination of every form of extremism—I don't know whether he is to be admired or scorned, regarded as a saint or a corpse.

The only way of enduring one disaster after the next is to love the very idea of disaster: if we succeed, there are no further surprises, we are superior to whatever occurs, we are invincible victims.