The more intense a spiritual leader's appetite for power, the more he is concerned to limit it to others.
If, at the limit, you can rule without crime, you cannot do so without injustices.
Those who believe in their truth -- the only ones whose imprint is retained by the memory of men -- leave the earth behind them strewn with corpses. Religions number in their ledgers more murders than the bloodiest tyrannies account for, and those whom humanity has called divine far surpass the most conscientious murderers in their thirst for slaughter.
We must suffer to the end, to the moment when we stop believing in suffering.
To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression. I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of ataraxy.
Self-conscious rejection of the absolute is the best way to resist God; thus illusion, the substance of life, is saved.
Progress is the injustice each generation commits with regard to its predecessors.
All the concessions we make to Eros are holes in our desire for the absolute.
Tears do not burn except in solitude.
No one can keep his griefs in their prime; they use themselves up.
An existence transfigured by failure.
Speech and silence. We feel safer with a madman who talks than with one who cannot open his mouth.
We cannot be normal and alive at the same time.
One can experience loneliness in two ways: by feeling lonely in the world or by feeling the loneliness of the world.
I have always struggled, with the sole intention of ceasing to struggle. Result: zero.
Afflicted with existence, each man endures like an animal the consequences which proceed from it. Thus, in a world where everything is detestable, hatred becomes huger than the world and, having transcended its object, cancels itself out.
Ideas come as you walk, Nietzsche said. Walking dissipates thoughts, Shankara taught.
Illusion begets and sustains the world; we do not destroy one without destroying the other. Which is what I do every day. An apparently ineffectual operation, since I must begin all over again the next day.
I try--without success--to stop finding reasons for vanity in anything. When I happen to manage it nonetheless, I feel that I no longer belong to the mortal gang. I am above everything then, above the gods themselves. Perhaps that is what death is: a sensation of great, of extreme superiority.
It is an understatement to say that in this society injustices abound: in truth, it is itself the quintessence of injustice.
God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.
The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.
True moral elegance consists in the art of disguising one's victories as defeats.
At this very moment, I am suffering—as we say in French, j’ai mal. This event, crucial for me, is nonexistent, even inconceivable for anyone else, for everyone else. Except for God, if that word can have a meaning.
There is no limit to suffering.
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