The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.

Only superficial minds approach an idea with delicacy.

In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.

Between Ennui and Ecstasy unwinds our whole experience of time.

An individual dies ... when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.

When you have understood that nothing is, that things do not even deserve the status of appearances, you no longer need to be saved, you are saved, and miserable forever.