There is no reason for any of our desires to exist. Our attention is an absurdity allowed by our winged inertia.

I find it so irritating, the happiness of all those men unaware of their unhappiness.

There's no sunset so lovely it couldn't be yet lovelier, no gentle breeze bringing us sleep that couldn't bring a yet sounder sleep.

What I was and will never be again! What I had and will never have again!

The human soul is a madhouse of the grotesque.

The search for the truth — whether the subjective truth of one's own convictions, the objective truth of reality or the social truth of money or power — always brings with it, if the searcher in question deserves the prize, the ultimate knowledge that the truth does not exist.