I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.
If the only significant history of human thought were to be written, it would have to be the history of its successive regrets and its impotences.
If the world were clear, art would not exist.
Something must happen—and that explains most human commitments. Something must happen, even loveless slavery, even war or death. Hurray then for funerals!
I know that heaven, which was indifferent to your horrible victories, will be equally indifferent to your just defeat.
We need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive.