When a man has once brought himself to accept uncritically all the absurdities that religious doctrines put before him and even to overlook the contradictions between them, we need not be greatly suprised at the weakness of his intellect.

We choose not randomly each other. We meet only those who already exists in our subconscious.

Writing was in its origin, the voice of an absent person.

It might be said of psychoanalysis that if you give it your little finger it will soon have your whole hand.

The voice of reason is small, but very persistent.

The moment a man questions the meaning and value of life, he is sick, since objectively neither has any existence; by asking this question one is merely admitting to a store of unsatisfied libido to which something else must have happened, a kind of fermentation leading to sadness and depression.

Without love we fall ill.