It seems to me that the soul, when alone with itself and speaking to itself, uses only a small number of words, none of them extraordinary.

What is simple is wrong, and what is complicated cannot be understood.

The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be.

Man is only man at the surface. Remove the skin, dissect, and immediately you come to machinery.

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?

That which has been believed by everyone, always and everywhere, has every chance of being false.

A poem is never finished, only abandoned.