We forget our guilt when we have confessed it to another, but the other does not usually forget it.

It is the evening that questions thus from within me.

In heaven, all the interesting people are missing.

Curiosity creeps into the houses of the unfortunate and the needy under the name of duty or of pity.

Time, space, and causality are only metaphors of knowledge, with which we explain things to ourselves.

Without art we would be nothing but foreground and live entirely in the spell of that perspective which makes what is closest at hand and most vulgar appear as if it were vast, and reality itself.

If thinking is your fate, revere this fate with divine honour and sacrifice to it the best, the most beloved