Nothing proves that we are more than nothing.
Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.
If there is anyone who owes everything to Bach, it is certainly God.
In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.
Doubt works deep within you like a disease or, even more effectively, like a faith.