There's a non-existent peace in the uncertain quietness.

Our personality should be impenetrable even to ourselves.

We adore perfection because we can't have it; it would disgust us if we had it. Perfect is inhuman, because human is imperfect.

Life is whatever we conceive it to be. For the farmer who considers his field to be everything, the field is an empire. For a Caesar whose empire is still not enough, the empire is a field. The poor man possesses an empire, the great man a field. All that we truly possess are our own sensations; it is in them, rather than in what they sense, that we must base our life’s reality.

A ship may seem to be an object whose purpose is to sail, but no, its purpose is to reach a port.

La maggior parte delle persone si ammala per non saper esprimere quello che vede e quello che pensa.

I am still obsessed with creating a false world, and will be until I die.

I’d like to write the encomium of a new incoherence that could serve as the negative charter for the new anarchy of souls.

No one understands anyone else. We are, as the poet said, enisled in the sea of life; between us flows the sea that defines and separates us. However hard one soul struggles to know another soul, he can only judge by what words are spoken – a formless shadow on the floor of his understanding.

I never had anyone I could call “Master”. No Christ died for me. No Buddha showed me the right path. In the depths of my dreams no Apollo or Athena appeared to me to enlighten my soul.