What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labor of verification.

Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.

The curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing now but mask and ghost.

A book is a suicide postponed.

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

Self-conscious rejection of the absolute is the best way to resist God; thus illusion, the substance of life, is saved.

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