Afflicted with existence, each man endures like an animal the consequences which proceed from it. Thus, in a world where everything is detestable, hatred becomes huger than the world and, having transcended its object, cancels itself out.
No one can keep his griefs in their prime; they use themselves up.
An existence transfigured by failure.
Ambition is a drug that makes its addicts potential madmen.
Truths begin by a conflict with the police - and end by calling them in.
One can experience loneliness in two ways: by feeling lonely in the world or by feeling the loneliness of the world.
If, at the limit, you can rule without crime, you cannot do so without injustices.
The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.
Ideas come as you walk, Nietzsche said. Walking dissipates thoughts, Shankara taught.
I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.
Those who believe in their truth -- the only ones whose imprint is retained by the memory of men -- leave the earth behind them strewn with corpses. Religions number in their ledgers more murders than the bloodiest tyrannies account for, and those whom humanity has called divine far surpass the most conscientious murderers in their thirst for slaughter.
There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.
We must suffer to the end, to the moment when we stop believing in suffering.
I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.
I was walking late one night along a tree-lined path; a chestnut fell at my feet. The noise it made as it burst, the resonance it provoked in me, and an upheaval out of all proportion to this insignificant event thrust me into miracle, into the rapture of the definitive, as if there were no more questions-only answers. I was drunk on a thousand unexpected discoveries, none of which I could make use of. ... This is how I nearly reached the Supreme. But instead I went on with my walk.
True moral elegance consists in the art of disguising one's victories as defeats.
Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.
A civilization begins to decline the moment Life becomes its sole obsession.
To devastate by language, to blow up the word and with it the world.
Our works, whatever they may be, derive from our incapacity to kill or to kill ourselves.
The deepest and most organic death is death in solitude, when even light becomes a principle of death. In such moments you will be severed from life, from love, smiles, friends and even from death. And you will ask yourself if there is anything besides the nothingness of the world and your own nothingness.
We have lost, being born, as much as we shall lose dying: Everything!
Criticism is a misconception: we must read not to understand others but to understand ourselves.
Life is possible only by the deficiencies of our imagination and memory.
To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression. I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of ataraxy.
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