Nothing finite is true, is interesting, is worthy to fix my attention. All that is particular is exclusive, and all that is exclusive repels me.

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?

To do what is impossible for talent is the mark of genius.

The mind must have for ballast the clear conception of duty, if it is not to fluctuate between levity and despair.

Clever people will recognize and tolerate nothing but cleverness.

You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering.

Sympathy is the first condition of criticism.