We are all geniuses when we dream.

Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?

To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten.

The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.

What every man who loves his country hopes for in his inmost heart: the suppression of half his compatriots.

Espousing the melancholy of ancient symbols, I would have freed myself.

On Creating — What we crave, what we want to see in others eyes, is that servile expression, an unconcealed infatuation with our gestures.