The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired. Only after death, only in solitude, does a man’s true nature emerge. In death, as on the chimney sweep’s Saturday night, the soot gets washed from his body.

Art flies around truth, but with the definite intention of not getting burnt. Its capacity lies in finding in the dark void a place where the beam of light can be intensely caught, without this having been perceptible before.

We all have wings, but they have not been of any avail to us and if we could tear them off, we would do so.

Books are a narcotic.

I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

Better to have, and not need, than to need, and not have.

They're talking about things of which they don't have the slightest understanding, anyway. It's only because of their stupidity that they're able to be so sure of themselves.