Like great works, deep feelings always mean more than they are conscious of saying.
There is a solitude in poverty, but a solitude which restores to each thing its value.
Nothing in the world is worth turning one's back on what one loves.
There is scarcely any passion without struggle.
I was born poor and without religion, under a happy sky, feeling harmony, not hostility, in nature. I began not by feeling torn, but in plenitude.
If it adapts itself to what the majority of our society wants, art will be a meaningless recreation.
You make the mistake of thinking you have to choose, that you have to do what you want, that there are conditions for happiness. What matters — all that matters, really is the will to happiness, a kind of enormous, ever present consciousness. The rest - women , art, success — is nothing but excuses. A canvas waiting for our embroideries.
A true masterpiece does not tell everything.
Women are all we know of paradise on this earth.
Wandering seemed no more than the happiness of an anxious man.
To create is likewise to give a shape to one's fate
To govern means to pillage, as everyone knows.
A nihilist is not one who believes in nothing , but one who does not believe in what exists.
And never have I felt so deeply at one and the same time so detached from myself and so present in the world.
No matter what cause one defends, it will suffer permanent disgrace if one resorts to blind attacks on crowds of innocent people.
Every time I hear a political speech or I read those of our leaders, I am horrified at having, for years, heard nothing which sounded human. It is always the same words telling the same lies.
We all carry within us places of exile, our crimes, our ravages. Our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to transform them in ourselves and others.
I understood, by dint of digging into my memories, that modesty helped me to shine, humility helped me to triumph and virtue to oppress.
the one who doesnt play, doesnt win anything, but he actually looses somehting, {playing}
I had only a little time left and I didn't want to waste it on God.
I lived with the only continuity, day to day, of the me-me-me.
What can a meaning outside my condition mean to me? I can understand only in human terms. What I touch, what resists me - that I understand. And these two certainties - my appetite for the absolute and for unity and the impossibility of reducing this world to a rational and reasonable principle - I also know that I cannot reconcile them. What other truth can I admit without lying, without bringing in a hope I lack and which means nothing within the limits of my conditions?
I have no friends, I only have accomplices now. On the other hand, my accomplices are more numerous than my friends: they are the human race.
Old married people look so much alike that they have the same number of hairs in their ears.
The truth, as the light, makes blind.
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