I lost my sleep, and this is the greatest tragedy that can befall someone. It is much worse than sitting in prison.

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

Not one moment when I have not been conscious of being outside Paradise.

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.

We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.

Reality is a creation of our excesses.