Books aren't made in the way that babies are: they are made like pyramids. There's some long-pondered plan, and then great blocks of stone are placed one on top of the other, and it's back-breaking, sweaty, time consuming work. And all to no purpose! It just stands there in the desert! But it towers over it prodigiously. Jackals piss at the base of it, and bourgeois clamber to the top of it, etc. Continue this comparison.

Sentences must stir in a book like leaves in a forest, each distinct from each despite their resemblance.

One must laugh and weep, love, work, enjoy and suffer, in short vibrate as much as possible in all his being.

Here is true immorality: ignorance and stupidity; the devil is nothing but this. His name is Legion.

Talent is nothing but long patience.

There is no truth. There is only perception.

To be simple is no small matter.