We cannot bear to regard ourselves simply as playthings of blind chance, we cannot admit to feeling ourselves abandoned.

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

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.

Each of us is the only person who can give the other what each of us wants to have: Peace.

When I say "I," I mean a thing absolutely unique, not to be confused with any other.

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

Nature is honest, we aren't; we embalm our dead.