Burn with that consuming fire of objectivity that forces a man to renew efforts that are doomed to failure.

The horse respects and obeys man because its large eyes magnify everything, so man appears much larger than the horse itself.

Every stink that fights the ventilator thinks it is Don Quixote.

A man who for an entire week does nothing but hit himself over the head has little reason to be proud.

The age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that Finis vitae sed non amoris, is a lie, useless and not even funny.

We are like snails, each stuck to his own leaf.

Man's quest for knowledge is an expanding series whose limit is infinity, but philosophy seeks to attain that limit at one blow, by a short circuit providing the certainty of complete and inalterable truth. Science meanwhile advances at its gradual pace, often slowing to a crawl, and for periods it even walks in place, but eventually it reaches the various ultimate trenches dug by philosophical thought, and, quite heedless of the fact that it is not supposed to be able to cross those final barriers to the intellect, goes right on.