Wars are fought for the benefit of oligarchs, triumphs bought with the blood of peons.

A work in which there are theories is like an object which still has the ticket that shows its price.

The inertia of the mind urges it to slide down the easy slope of imagination, rather than to climb the steep slope of introspection.

Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.

We passionately long that there may be another life in which we shall be similar to what we are here below. But we do not pause to reflect that, even without waiting for that other life, in this life, after a few years we are unfaithful to what we have been, to what we wished to remain immortally.

Reading is that fruitful miracle of a communication in the midst of solitude.

You can't learn the truth about a man's intentions by asking him.