Consciousness is a disease.

These terrible sociologists, who are the astrologers and alchemists of our twentieth century.

The moment love is equated with happiness, it is satisfied — and is no longer love. The satisfied, the happy ones, do not love; they fall asleep in habit, near neighbor to annihilation.

If a philosopher is not a man, he is anything but a philosopher; he is above all a pedant, and a pedant is a caricature of a man.

Science is a cemetery of dead ideas, even though life may issue from them.

Love is the child of illusion and the parent of disillusion.

Science is a cemetary of dead ideas.