Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?

A people represents not so much an aggregate of ideas and theories as of obsessions.

To exist is equivalent to an act of faith, a protest against the truth, an interminable prayer. As soon as they consent to live, the unbeliever and the man of faith are fundamentally the same, since both have made the only decision that defines a being.

Truths begin by a conflict with the police - and end by calling them in.

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

A marvel that has nothing to offer, democracy is at once a nation's paradise and its tomb.

Let us not be needlessly bitter: certain failures are sometimes fruitful.