In argument similes are like songs in love; they describe much, but prove nothing.

So eager are our people to obliterate the present.

The existence of the writer is an argument against the existence of the soul, for the soul has obviously taken flight from the real ego, but not improved itself, only become a writer.

If what was supposed to have been destroyed in Paradise was destructible, then it was not decisive; but if it was indestructible, then we are living in a false belief.

A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul.

The delights of this life are not its own, but our fear of the ascent into a higher life; the torments of this life are not its own, but our self-torment because of that fear.

Now I can look at you in peace; I don't eat you any more.