History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.

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

Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.

There was a time when time did not yet exist. … The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.

Utopia is a mixture of childish rationalism and secularized angelism.

What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?

Discretion is deadly to genius; ruinous to talent.