If there is anyone who owes everything to Bach, it is certainly God.
Philosophers write for professors; thinkers for writers.
Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.
Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.
God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.
History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.