We are all geniuses when we dream.

Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.

Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.

Intelligence flourishes only in the ages when belief withers.

Jealousy - that jumble of secret worship and ostensible aversion.

What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name - and moving on.

God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.

I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.

Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.

We cannot consent to be judged by someone who has suffered less than ourselves. And since each of us regards himself as an unrecognized Job.

Only one endowed with restless vitality is susceptible to pessimism. You become a pessimist-a demonic, elemental, bestial pessimist-only when life has been defeated many times in its fight against depression.

Utopia is the grotesque en rose, the need to associate happiness - that is, the improbable - with becoming, and to coerce an optimistic, aerial vision to the point where it rejoins its own source: the very cynicism it sought to combat. In short, a monstrous fantasy.

Thinking should be like musical meditation. Has any philosopher pursued a thought to its limits the way Bach or Beethoven develop and exhaust a musical theme? Even after having read the most profound thinkers, one still feels the need to begin anew. Only music gives definitive answers.

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