Oh, gentlemen, perhaps I really regard myself as an intelligent man only because throughout my entire life I've never been able to start or finish anything. Granted, granted I'm a babbler, a harmless, irksome babbler, as we all are. But what's to be done if the sole and express purpose of every intelligent man is babble--that is, a deliberate pouring from empty into void.

Paradise is hidden in each one of use, it is concealed within me too, right now, and if I wish, it will come for me in reality, tomorrow even, and for the rest of my life.

Man is a pliable animal, a being who gets accustomed to everything!

To live without Hope is to Cease to live.

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

Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.

There are things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind.