I hate you, God. I hate you as though you actually exist.

One can't love humanity. One can only love people.

It's strange how the human mind swings back and forth, from one extreme to another. Does truth lie at some point of the pendulum's swing, at a point where it never rests, not in the dull perpendicular mean where it dangles in the end like a windless flag, but at an angle, nearer one extreme than another? If only a miracle could stop the pendulum at an angle of sixty degrees, one would believe the truth was there.

Innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell, wandering the world, meaning no harm.

The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity.

It is impossible to go through life without trust: that is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself.

It was like having a box of chocolates shut in the bedroom drawer. Until the box was empty it occupied the mind too much.