The human soul is an abyss.
Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.
If we knew the truth, we’d see it; all else is system and outskirts.
There is no safe standard to tell man from animals.
Ah, who will save me from existing? It’s neither death nor life that I want.
Destiny gave me only two things: a few accounting books and the gift of dreaming.
My soul’s the present shadow of a presence gone.
The startling reality of things is my discovery every single day.
In any spirit that isn’t deformed there is the belief in God. In any spirit that is not deformed there isn’t the belief in a particular God.
I never cared about whatever tragic event happened in China. It’s faraway decoration, even if in blood and plague.
What’s most worthless about dreams is that everybody has them.
Being a retired major looks like an ideal thing to me. What a pity you couldn’t eternally have been just a retired major.
What is a disease is wishing with an equal intensity what is needed and what is desirable, and suffer for not being perfect as you would suffer for not having bread. The romantic error is this wanting the moon as if there was a way to get it.
God wills, man dreams, the work is born.
To have defined and sure opinions, fixed and known instincts, passions and character – all that is the horror of turning our soul into a fact, materialize it and make it external.
Property isn’t theft: it’s nothing.
Only sterility is noble and dignified. Only killing what never was is elevated and perverse and absurd.
The supreme empire is that of the Emperor who renounces all normal life, that of other men, and in who the care of supremacy doesn’t weigh like a load of jewels.
Every man who deserves to be famous knows it is not worth the trouble.
Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.