Pursued by our origins... we all are.

Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.

All people see fires, storms, explosions, or landscapes; but how many feel the flames, the lightnings, the whirlwinds, or the harmony? How many have an inner beauty that tinges their melancholy?

A golden rule: to leave an incomplete image of oneself.

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

Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again.

To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression. I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of ataraxy.