Two dangers constantly threaten the world: order and disorder.

No work of art is ever completed, it is only abandoned.

Man's great misfortune is that he has no organ, no kind of eyelid or brake, to mask or block a thought, or all thought, when he wants to.

My hand feels touched as well as it touches; reality says this, and nothing more.

The only treaties that ought to count are those which would effect a settlement between ulterior motives.

It would be impossible to "love" anyone or anything one knew completely. Love is directed towards what lies hidden in its object.

Sometime I think; and sometime I am.