Whether or not they exist we are slaves to our gods.

But I am not perfect in my way of putting things Because I lack the divine simplicity Of being only what I appear to be.

Tomorrow I too – this feeling and thinking soul, the universe I am to myself – yes, tomorrow I too will be someone who no longer walks these streets, someone others will evoke with a vague: 'I wonder what's become of him?” And everything I do, everything I feel, everything I experience, will be just one less passer-by on the daily streets of some city or other.

The value of things is not the time they last, but the intensity with which they occur. That is why there are unforgettable moments and unique people!

There's something vile (and all the more vile because ridiculous) in the tendency of feeble men to make universal tragedies out of the sad comedies of their private woes.

I'm something that I used to be. I'm never where I feel I am, and if I seek myself, I don't know who's seeking me. My boredom with everything has numbed me. I feel banished from my soul.

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