My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.

I realize that, while often happy and often cheerful, I am always sad.

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.

Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice

The world belongs to who doesn't feel. The primary condition to be a practical man is the absence of sensitivity.

My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while.

Give to each emotion a personality, to each state of mind a soul.