I have all the defects of other people yet everything they do seems to me inconceivable.

One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language. That is our country, our fatherland - and no other.

Our first intuitions are the true ones.

I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.

What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labor of verification.

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

Ideas come as you walk, Nietzsche said. Walking dissipates thoughts, Shankara taught.