By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.
A self-respecting man is a man without a country. A fatherland is birdlime.
Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.
In order to have the stuff of a tyrant, a certain mental derangement is necessary.
One doesn't live in a country, one lives in a language.
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.