Books and drafts mean something quite different for different thinkers. One collects in a book the lights he was able to steal and carry home swiftly out of the rays of some insight that suddenly dawned on him, while another thinker offers us nothing but shadows - images in black and grey of what had built up in his soul the day before.

Our body is simply a social structure made of many souls.

Against boredom even gods struggle in vain.

One must give value to their existence by behaving as if ones very existence were a work of art.

there they laugh: they do not understand me; I am not the mouth for these ears.

He who is not a bird should not build his nest over abysses.

A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.