All that shimmers on the surface of the world, all that we call interesting, is the fruit of ignorance and inebriation.

Consciousness is much more than the thorn, it is the dagger in the flesh.

The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.

No one can keep his grieves in their prime; they use themselves up.

The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.