I am still at Trattenbach, surrounded, as ever, by odiousness and baseness. I know that human beings on the average are not worth much anywhere, but here they are much more good-for-nothing and irresponsible than elsewhere.

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

Not how the world is, but that it is, is the mystery.

Because our goals are not lofty but illusory, our problems are not difficult, but nonsensical.

In order to be able to set a limit to thought, we should have to find both sides of the limit thinkable (i.e. we should have to be able to think what cannot be thought).

The depressed man lives in a depressed world.

I give no sources, because it is indifferent to me whether what I have thought has already been thought before me by another.