If a man has not, by the time he is thirty, yielded to the fascination of every form of extremism—I don't know whether he is to be admired or scorned, regarded as a saint or a corpse.

To accomplish nothing and die of the strain

We understand God by everything in ourselves that is fragmentary, incomplete, and inopportune.

Society is not a disease, it is a disaster. What a stupid miracle that one can live in it.

True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

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

I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.