If my life were not a dangerous, painful experiment, if I did not constantly skirt the abyss and feel the void under my feet, my life would have no meaning and I would not have been able to write anything.

Like one who has eaten and drunk too much and vomits painfully and then feels better, so did the restless man wish he could rid himself with one terrific heave of these pleasures, of these habits of this entirely senseless life.

Chaos demands to be recognized and experienced before letting itself be converted into a new order.

I realize today that nothing in the world is more distasteful to a man than to take the path that leads to himself.

When we hate a person, what we hate in his image is something inside ourselves. Whatever isn't inside us can't excite us.

Within us there is someone who knows everything, wills everything, does everything better than we ourselves.

So you can't dance? Not at all? Not even one step? How can you say that you've taken any trouble to live when you won't even dance?