In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality.

When . . . in the course of all these thousands of years has man ever acted in accordance with his own interests?

I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky — that’s all it is. It’s not a matter of intellect or logic, it’s loving with one’s inside, with one’s stomach.

He seemed, indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation though often grieving bitterly.

For example, I'm terribly proud. I'm as mistrustful and as sensitive as a hunchback or a dwarf; but, in truth, I've experienced some moments when if someone had slapped my face, I might even have been grateful for it. I'm being serious. I probably would have been able to derive a peculiar sort of pleasure from it-the pleasure of despair, naturally, but the most intense pleasures occur in despair, especially when you're very acutely aware of the hopelessness of your own predicament.

For what is man without desires, without free will, and without the power of choice but a stop in an organ pipe?

I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there - that is living.