I stick my finger into existence and it smells of nothing.

Everyone looks the same to me in a photograph: stupid.

Knowledge of the truth I may perhaps have attained to; happiness certainly not. What shall I do? Accomplish something in the world, men tell me. Shall I then publish my grief to the world, contribute one more proof for the wretchedness and misery of existence, perhaps discover a new flaw in human life, hitherto unnoticed? I might then reap the rare reward of becoming famous, like the man who discovered the spots on Jupiter. I prefer, however, to keep silent.

It requires courage not to surrender oneself to the ingenious or compassionate counsels of despair that would induce a man to eliminate himself from the ranks of the living; but it does not follow from this that every huckster who is fattened and nourished in self-confidence has more courage than the man who yielded to despair.

The more people who believe something, the more apt it is to be wrong. The person who's right often has to stand alone.

To be a woman is something so strange, so confusing and so complicated that only a woman could put up with it.

For love is exultant when it unites equals, but it is triumphant when it makes that which was unequal equal in love.