We need sometimes to escape into open solitudes, into aimlessness, into the moral holiday of running some pure hazard in order to sharpen the edge of life, to taste hardship, and to be compelled to work desperately for a moment at no matter what.

Uselessness is a fatal accusation to bring against any act which is done for its presumed utility, but those which are done for their own sake are their own justification.

Progress, far from consisting in change, depends on retentiveness. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

The line between what is known scientifically and what has to be assumed in order to support knowledge is impossible to draw. Memory itself is an internal rumour.

Culture is on the horns of this dilemma: if profound and noble it must remain rare, if common it must become mean.

Life is judged with all the blindness of life itself.

The passions grafted on wounded pride are the most inveterate; they are green and vigorous in old age.