Pursued by our origins... we all are.
What is pity but the vice of kindness.
We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.
The amount of chiaroscuro an idea harbors is the only index of its profundity.
Crime in full glory consolidates authority by the sacred fear it inspires.
The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.
I have no nationality - the best possible status for an intellectual.
An aphorism? Fire without flames. Understandable that no one tries to warm himself at it.
Life without utopia is suffocating, for the multitude at least: threatened otherwise with petrifaction, the world must have a new madness.
That history just unfolds, independently of a specified direction, of a goal, no one is willing to admit.
The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.
What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?
One doesn't live in a country, one lives in a language.
The capital phenomenon, the most catastrophic disaster, is uninterrupted sleeplessness, that nothingness without release.
I do not want to see BP nickel and diming these businesses that are having a tough time.
To exist is a habit I do not despair of acquiring.
Tolerance - the function of an extinguished ardor - tolerance cannot seduce the young.
Boredom dismantles the mind, renders it superficial, out at the seams, saps it from within and dislocates it.
"The Holy Ghost," Luther instructs us, "is not a skeptic." Not everyone can be, and that is really too bad.
In order to have the stuff of a tyrant, a certain mental derangement is necessary.
We are all deep in a hell each moment of which is a miracle.
A sensation must have fallen very low to deign to turn into an idea.
Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.
Each of us must pay for the slightest damage he inflicts upon a universe created for indifference and stagnation, sooner or later, he will regret not having left it intact.
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