Perhaps that's what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that's what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I'm neither one side nor the other, I'm in the middle, I'm the partition, I've two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that's what I feel, myself vibrating, I'm the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don't belong to either.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!

For the only way one can speak of nothing is to speak of it as though it were something, just as the only way one can speak of God is to speak of him as though he were a man, which to be sure he was, in a sense, for a time, and as the only way one can speak of man, even our anthropologists have realized that, is to speak of him as though he were a termite.

All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing.

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.