There is no forgiveness in nature.
Sisterly love is, of all sentiments, the most abstract. Nature does not grant it any functions.
Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.
Is not man himself the most unsettled of all the creatures of the earth? What is this trembling sensation that is intensified with each ascending step in the natural order?
This free will business is a bit terrifying anyway. It's almost pleasanter to obey, and make the most of it.
A long association-prolonged human contact, when a man and woman live together-this ends up producing a sort of rot, a poison.
At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.
We know well enough when we're being unjust and despicable. but we don't restrain ourselves because we experience a certain pleasure, a primitive sort of satisfaction in moments like that.
A vague uneasiness: the police. It's like when you suddenly understand you have to undress in front of the doctor.
We play make believe, pretend to take ourselves and each other seriously--to love each other, hate each other--but then--it isn't true. It isn't true, we don't care at all!
'Mad' is a term we use to describe a man who is obsessed with one idea and nothing else.
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