The things we achieve, whether empires or sentences, have (because they've been achieved) that fatal defect of real things: the fact they're perishable.
In me all affections take place on the surface, but sincerely. I've always been an actor, and in earnest. Whenever I've loved, I've pretended to love, pretending it even to myself.
What grieves me is that my best is no good, and that another whom I dream of, if he existed, would have done it better.
Since all stoicism is really just a harsher form of epicureanism, I want as far as possible to enjoy my misfortune.
Great mysteries inhabit the threshold of my being.
I'm lost if I find myself; I doubt what I discover; I don't have what I've obtained. I sleep as if I were taking a walk, but I'm awake. I wake up as if I'd been sleeping, and I don't belong to me. Life, in its essence, is one big insomnia, and all that we think or do occurs in a lucid stupor.