All that shimmers on the surface of the world, all that we call interesting, is the fruit of ignorance and inebriation.

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?

Under each formula lies a corpse.

A book has to dig through the wounds, more, it has cause a new one, a book it has to be dangerous.

A people represents not so much an aggregate of ideas and theories as of obsessions.

History proves nothing because it contains everything.

The wise man, the sage, is hostile to the new. Disabused, he abdicates: that is his form of protest.