There is a prodigious selfishness in dreams: they live perfectly deaf and invulnerable amid the cries of the real world.
The fact of having been born is a bad augury for immortality.
Better not be a hero than work oneself up into heroism by shouting lies.
One's friends are that part of the human race with which one can be human.
Memory itself is an internal rumour.
Theory helps us to bear our ignorance of facts.