All human knowledge takes the form of interpretation.

A blind determination to save the prestige of personal existence, rather than, through an impartial disdain for its impotence and entanglement, at least to detach it from the background of universal delusion, is triumphing almost everywhere.

No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener.

Like ultraviolet rays memory shows to each man in the book of life a script that invisibly and prophetically glosses the text.

Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away.

The crowd is the veil through which the familiar city beckons to the flâneur as phantasmagoria-now a landscape, now a room.

Let no thought pass incognito, and keep your notebook as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens.