To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.

It has been a long time since philosophers have read men's souls. It is not their task, we are told. Perhaps. But we must not be surprised if they no longer matter much to us.

If each of us were to confess his most secret desire, the one that inspires all his plans, all his actions, he would say: "I want to be praised."

Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.

If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.

How easy it is to be "deep": all you have to do is let yourself sink into your own flaws.

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