The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
I don’t like animals. It’s a strange thing, I don’t like men and I don’t like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.
We are all born; some remain so.
All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.