Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.

Is not man himself the most unsettled of all the creatures of the earth? What is this trembling sensation that is intensified with each ascending step in the natural order?

Everyone has, inside himself ... what shall I call it? A piece of good news! Everyone is ... a very great, very important character.

Sisterly love is, of all sentiments, the most abstract. Nature does not grant it any functions.

When you want to believe in something, you also have to believe in everything that's necessary for believing in it.

This free will business is a bit terrifying anyway. It's almost pleasanter to obey, and make the most of it.

We know well enough when we're being unjust and despicable. but we don't restrain ourselves because we experience a certain pleasure, a primitive sort of satisfaction in moments like that.