We change ideas like neckties.

He who hates himself is not humble.

I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.

Hungarian Language — savage it may be but of a beauty that has nothing human about it, with sonorities of another universe, powerful and corrosive, appropriate to prayer, to groans and to tears, risen out of hell to perpetuate its accent and its aura…words of nectar and cyanide.

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

Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.

A sudden silence in the middle of a conversation suddenly brings us back to essentials: it reveals how dearly we must pay for the invention of speech.