They did not know what we can now guess at, contemplating the course of history: that change begins in the soul before it appears in ordinary existence.

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.

I do not read advertisements. I would spend all of my time wanting things.

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.

There sat I, a faded being, under faded leaves.

Only the moment counts. It determines life.

The history of the world, as it is written and handed down by word of mouth, often fails us completely; but man's intuitive capacity, though it often misleads, does lead, does not ever abandon one.