And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.

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

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

On the road halfway between faith and criticism stands the inn of reason. Reason is faith in what can be understood without faith, but it's still a faith, since to understand presupposes that there's something understandable.

That is my morality or my metaphysics or me myself: a passer-by in everything, even my own soul. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing except an abstract centre of impersonal sensations, a sentient mirror fallen from the wall but still turned to reflect the diversity of the world.

To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)

The startling reality of things is my discovery every single day.