Serious people have few ideas. People with ideas are never serious.

The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us.

Every social system is more or less against nature, and at every moment nature is at work to reclaim her rights.

Interruption, incoherence, surprise are the ordinary conditions of our life. They have even become real needs for many people, whose minds are no longer fed by anything but sudden changes and constantly renewed stimuli. We can no longer bear anything that lasts. We no longer know how to make boredom bear fruit. So the whole question comes down to this: can the human mind master what the human mind has made?

What one wrote playfully, another reads with tension and passion; what one wrote with tension and passion, another reads playfully.

The dog has made man their God, if the dog was an atheist, it would be perfect.

What golden hour of life, what glittering moment will ever equal the pain its loss can cause?