There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

Ha! to forget. How childish! I feel you in my bones. Your silence screams in my ears. You may nail your mouth shut, you may cut out your tongue, can you keep yourself from existing? Will you stop your thoughts.

Ah! yes, I know: those who see me rarely trust my word: I must look too intelligent to keep it.

Once liberty has exploded in the soul of a man, the gods can do nothing against that man.

What's done at night belongs to the night. In the daytime you don't talk about it.

Originally, poetry creates the myth, while the prose-writer draws its portrait.

To eat is to appropriate by destruction.