Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.
No intelligent idea can gain general acceptance unless some stupidity is mixed in with it.
To know how to think with emotions and to feel with intellect.
My happiest hours are those in which I think nothing, want nothing, when I do not even dream, but lose myself in some spurious vegetable torpor, moss growing on the surface of life. Without a trace of bitterness I savour my absurd awareness of being nothing, a mere foretaste of death and extinction.
I pass times, I pass silences, formless worlds pass me by.
I suffer from life and from other people. I can’t look at reality face to face. Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful — only then do I find myself and feel comforted.
Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all ends and purposes and intentions.
I look at myself but I'm missing. I know myself: it’s not me.
Every day things happen in the world that cannot be explained by any law of things we know. Every day they're mentioned and forgotten, and the same mystery that brought them takes them away, transforming their secret into oblivion. Such is the law by which things that can't be explained must be forgotten. The visible world goes on as usual in the broad daylight. Otherness watches us from the shadows.
I always live in the present. The future I can't know. The past I no longer have.
Life is good, but Wine is better.
Art gives us the illusion of liberation from the sordid business of being.
Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself.
It's been a long time since I've been me.
To need to dominate others is to need others. The commander is dependent.
Wise is he who enjoys the show offered by the world.
In today's life, the world belongs only to the stupid, the insensitive and the agitated. The right to live and triumph is now conquered almost by the same means by which you conquer internment in an asylum: the inability to think, amorality and hiperexcitation.
We worship perfection because we can't have it; if we had it, we would reject it. Perfection is inhuman, because humanity is imperfect.
Life is full of paradoxes, as roses are of thorns.
Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.
There's no regret more painful than the regret of things that never were.
Have you ever considered, beloved other, how invisible we are to each other? We look at each other without seeing. We listen to each other and hear only a voice inside out self. The words of others are mistakes of our hearing, shipwrecks of our understanding. How confidently we believe OUR meanings of other people's words.
There's a non-existent peace in the uncertain quietness
I've always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I'm not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect
There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful.
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