Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.

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

Man must vanquish himself, must do himself violence, in order to perform the slightest action untainted by evil.

My mission is to see things as they are. Exactly contrary of a mission.

Utopia is a mixture of childish rationalism and secularized angelism.

Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!

I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.