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

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.

By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.

The more we try to rest ourselves from our Egos, the deeper we sink into it.

We have convictions only if we have studied nothing thoroughly.

All people see fires, storms, explosions, or landscapes; but how many feel the flames, the lightnings, the whirlwinds, or the harmony? How many have an inner beauty that tinges their melancholy?

We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.