We inhabit a language rather than a country.

That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.

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

Anyone who speaks in the name of others is always an impostor.

Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.

Nothing sweeter than to drag oneself along behind events; and nothing more reasonable. But without a strong dose of madness, no initiative, no enterprise, no gesture. Reason: the rust of our vitality. It is the madman in us who forces us to adventure; once he abandons us, we are lost; everything depends on him, even our vegetative life; it is he who invites us, who obliges us to breathe, and it is also he who forces our blood to venture through our veins. Once he withdraws, we are alone indeed! We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.

What do you do from morning to night?" "I endure myself.