Once you see that everything is unreal, you can't see why you should bother to prove it.

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

In a republic, that paradise of debility, the politician is a petty tyrant who obeys the laws.

Life without utopia is suffocating, for the multitude at least: threatened otherwise with petrifaction, the world must have a new madness.

I seem to myself, among civilized men, an intruder, a troglodyte enamored of decrepitude, plunged into subversive prayers.

Jealousy - that jumble of secret worship and ostensible aversion.

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.