But yet I am firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease.

There is nothing more alluring to man than freedom of conscience, but neither is there anything more agonizing.

And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking into these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him!

In every idea of genius or in every new human idea, or, more simply still, in every serious human idea born in anyone's brain, there is something that cannot possibly be conveyed to others.

Besides, nowadays, almost all capable people are terribly afraid of being ridiculous, and are miserable because of it.

The most offensive is not their lying - one can always forgive lying - lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth - what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying.

Deprived of meaningful work, men and women lose their reason for existence; they go stark, raving mad.