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

Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.

Knowledge, having irritated and stimulated our appetite for power, will lead us inexorably to our ruin.

Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.

Normal people have nothing to forget.

Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?

Word - that invisible dagger.