The soul is so far from being a monad that we have not only to interpret other souls to ourself but to interpret ourself to ourself.
Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
Every man of genius is considerably helped by being dead.
People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.
There is not a more repulsive spectacle than on old man who will not forsake the world, which has already forsaken him.
There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.
There are some people who want to throw their arms round you simply because it is Christmas; there are other people who want to strangle you simply because it is Christmas.
Only a god can save us.
If you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup of scorn and hatred that a fellow human being can pour out for you, let a young mother hear you call dear baby ‘it.’
But every historical statement and legitimization itself moves within a certain relation to history.