To feel keenly the poetry of a morning's roses, one has to have just escaped from the claws of this vulture which we call sickness.

Dreams are excursions into the limbo of things, a semi-deliverance from the human prison.

Self-interest is an inexhaustible source of convenient illusions. The number of beings who wish to see truly is extraordinarily small.

I find myself regarding existence as though from beyond the tomb, from another world; all is strange to me; I am, as it were, outside my own body and individuality; I am depersonalized, detached, cut adrift. Is this madness?

The spirit of sarcasm lives and thrives in the midst of universal wreck; its balls are enchanted and itself invulnerable, and it braves retaliations and reprisals because itself is a mere flash, a bodiless and magical nothing.

Order is man's greatest need, and his true well-being.

We only understand that which already is within us.