A decadent civilization compromises with its disease, cherishes the virus infecting it, loses its self-respect.
Great persecutors are recruited among martyrs whose heads haven't been cut off.
No one can enjoy freedom without trembling.
The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.
Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.
There was a time when time did not yet exist.