This world is for those who are born to conquer it, Not for those who dream that are able to conquer it, even if they're right.

Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.

I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I’ve seen in engravings, than with many supposedly real people with the metaphysical absurdity known as ‘flesh and blood’. In fact, ‘flesh and blood’ describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid out on the butcher’s marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive.

Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.

I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.

But do we really live? To live without knowing what life is - is that living?

Once we're able to see this world as an illusion and a phantasm, then we can see everything that happens to us as a dream, as something that pretended to exist while we were sleeping. And we will become subtly and profoundly indifferent towards all of life's setbacks and calamities. Those who die turned a corner, which is why we've stopped seeing them; those who suffer pass before us like a nightmare, if we feel, or like an unpleasant daydream, if we think. And even our own suffering won't be more than this nothingness.