Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.

Shame on the man who goes to his grave escorted by the miserable hopes that have kept him alive.

God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.

That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.

If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.

In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.

Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.