Man cannot persist long in a conscious state, he must throw himself back into the unconscious, for his root lives there.

Nature has neither core nor skin: she’s both at once outside and in.

If you have a great work in your head, nothing else thrives near it; all other thoughts are repelled, and the pleasure of life itself is for the time lost.

Time is a strange thing. It is a whimsical tyrant, which in every century has a different face for all that one says and does.

Truth is a torch, but a huge one, and so it is only with blinking eyes what we all of us try to get past it, in actual terror of being burnt.

At the end of life thoughts hitherto impossible come to the collected mind, like good spirits which let themselves down from the shining heights of the past.

Mediocrity has no greater consolation than in the thought that genius is not immortal.