All of living is nothing but a fervid attempt to move closer together.

The thinking man always finds himself in a gigantic orphanage in which people are continually proving to him that he has no parents.

After all, there is nothing but failure.

One day you're cut off, at the very start you're cut off and can't go back, the language you learn and the whole business of walking and all the rest is for the sake of the single thought, how to get back again.

Very often we write down a sentence too early, then another too late; what we have to do is write it down at the proper time, otherwise it's lost.

It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.

People keep a dog and are ruled by this dog, and even Schopenhauer was ruled in the end not by his head, but by his dog. This fact is more depressing than any other.