Then how can there be a final revolution? There is no final one; revolutions are infinite.
Was it not I who populated with them all these pages – just recently no more than white rectangular deserts? Without me, would they ever be seen by those whom I shall lead behind me along the narrow paths of lines?
It’s clear: if there is no good reason for enviousness, the denominator of the fraction of happiness is brought to zero and the fraction is transformed into a glorious infinity.
Shutting my eyes, I dreamed in formulas.
I feel myself. But it’s only the eye with a lash in it, the swollen finger, the infected tooth that feels itself, is conscious of its own individual being. The healthy eye or finger or tooth doesn’t seem to exist. So it’s clear, isn’t it? Self-consciousness is just a disease.
And it’s also clear that what I felt yesterday, that stupid “dissolving in the universe”, if you take it to its limit, is death. Because that’s exactly what death is-the fullest possible dissolving of myself into the universe.
Oh, to the deuce with knowledge. Your much-heralded knowledge is but a form of cowardice. It is a fact! Yes, you want to encircle the infinite with a wall, and you fear to cast a glance behind the wall.
True literature can exist only where it is created, not by diligent and trustworthy functionaries, but by madmen, hermits, heretics, dreamers, rebels, and skeptics.
Literature is painting, architecture, and music.
Heretics are the only bitter remedy against the entropy of human thought.
How do you know that nonsense isn’t a good thing? If human nonsense had been nurtured and developed for centuries, just as intelligence has, then perhaps something extraordinarily precious could have come from it.
All truths are erroneous. This is the very essence of the dialectical process: today’s truths become errors tomorrow; there is no final number.
Love and hunger rule the world. Ergo, to rule the world, one must master love and hunger.
There are books of the same chemical composition as dynamite. The only difference is that a piece of dynamite explodes once, whereas a book explodes a thousand times.
All of life in its complexity and beauty is forever minted in the gold of words.
Is it not clear, however, that bliss and envy are the numerator and denominator of the fraction called happiness?
The most wonderful thing in life is to be delirious and the most wonderful kind of delirium is being in love.
The speed of her tongue is not correctly calculated; the speed per second of her toungue should be slightly less than the speed per second of her thoughts -at any rate not the reverse.
I prefer being wrong in my own way to being right in someone else’s.
You’re in bad shape. It looks like you’re developing a soul.