I feel alone, free, and detached from everything in the world, and I'm happy.

I will only ever be drawn to people who suffer from that special and fertile anguish called self-doubt, or the thirst for the ideal, and desire for the soul's mystical fire. Self-satisfaction because of some material accomplishment will never be for me. The truly great are those who quest for better spiritual selves.

I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.

We are, all of us, poor wretches, and those who prefer not to understand this are even worse off than the rest of us.

From every ruin, life springs up again and everything that dies is born again.

While to live in the past and think of what was good and beautiful about it amounts to a sort of seasoning of the present, the perennial wait for tomorrow is bound to result in chronic discontent that poisons one's entire outlook.

I am full of the sorrow that goes with changes in surroundings, those successive stages of annihilation that slowly lead to the great and final void.

One must use the weapons one finds in one's path.

I am not afraid of death, but would not want to die in some obscure or pointless way.

To be alone is to be free, and freedom was the only happiness accessible to my nature.

The farther behind I leave the past, the closer I am to forging my own character.

Oh if at every moment of our lives we could know the consequences of some of the utterings, thoughts and deeds that seem so trivial and unimportant at the time! And should we not conclude from such examples that there is no such thing in life as unimportant moments devoid of meaning for the future?