In order to have the stuff of a tyrant, a certain mental derangement is necessary.

Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.

What every man who loves his country hopes for in his inmost heart: the suppression of half his compatriots.

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

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.