The limit of every pain is an even greater pain.

Wisdom disguises our wounds; it teaches us how to bleed in secret.

How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.

Those who believe in their truth -- the only ones whose imprint is retained by the memory of men -- leave the earth behind them strewn with corpses. Religions number in their ledgers more murders than the bloodiest tyrannies account for, and those whom humanity has called divine far surpass the most conscientious murderers in their thirst for slaughter.

God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.

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?

Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.