I live, which is the main point.

I do not know the meaning of my sadness; there is an old fairy tale that I cannot get out of my mind.

You talk of our having an idea; we do not have an idea. The idea has us, and martyrs us, and scourges us, and drives us into the arena to fight and die for it, whether we want to or not.

The real madness probably is not another thing that the wisdom itself that, tired of discovering the shames of the world, has taken the intelligent resolution to become mad

I live, which is the main point.

Life is all too wondrous sweet, and the world is so beautifully bewildered; it is the dream of an intoxicated divinity.

Phychical pain is more easily borne than physical; and if I had my choice between a bad conscience and a bad tooth, I should choose the former.