The abstract intelligence produces a fatigue that's the worst of all fatigues. It doesn't weigh on us like bodily fatigue, nor disconcert like the fatigue of emotional experience. It's the weight of our consciousness of the world, a shortness of breath in our soul.

Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!

I think of life as an inn where I have to stay until the abyss coach arrives. I don't know where it will take me, for I know nothing.

Nobody appropriates novelties as readily as the Portuguese.

Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.

Should I be what I think? But I think about being so many things!

My boredom with everything has numbed me.