Often a man is patient for several years, is resigned, endures most cruel punishment, and suddenly breaks out over some little thing, some trifle, a mere nothing.
In most cases, people, even wicked people, are far more naive and simple-hearted than one generally assumes. And so are we.
No, life is given to me only once, and never will be again—I don't want to sit waiting for universal happiness. I want to live myself; otherwise it's better not to live at all.
The whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano-key!
I sometimes think love consists precisely of the voluntary gift by the loved object of the right to tyrannize over it.
I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic.