Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will it speak: it is still too young—so have patience with it!

I need solitude, which is to say, recovery, return to my self, the breath of a free, light, playful air.

As a human being Plato mingles regal, exclusive, and self-contained features with melancholy compassion.

Ultimately, no one can extract from things, books included, more than he already knows.

The golden fleece of self-sufficiency guards against cudgel- blows but not against pin-pricks.

We ought to face our destiny with courage.

Without the errors which lie in the assumption of morality, man would have remained an animal.