To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.

The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.

Wise is he who enjoys the show offered by the world.

To feel today what one felt yesterday isn't to feel - it's to remember today what was felt yesterday, to be today's living corpse of what yesterday was lived and lost.

We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept—our own selves—that we love.

Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.

I realize that I was all error and deviation, that I never lived, that I existed only in so far as I filled time with consciousness and thought.