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.

We have lost, being born, as much as we shall lose dying: Everything!

It has been a long time since philosophers have read men's souls. It is not their task, we are told. Perhaps. But we must not be surprised if they no longer matter much to us.

I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.

I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.

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

The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.