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

To venture upon an undertaking of any kind, even the most insignificant, is to sacrifice to envy.

Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?

Great persecutors are recruited among martyrs whose heads haven't been cut off.

History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.

Revenge is not always sweet, once it is consummated we feel inferior to our victim.