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Without madness what is man more than the healthy beast, corpse adjourned that procreates?
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Everyone has his vanity, and each one's vanity is his forgetting that there are others with an equal soul.
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Art consists in making others feel what we feel.
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What is art but the denial of life?
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I'm all those things, even though I don't want to, in the confuse depth of my fatal sensibility.
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God gave the sea the danger and the abyss, but it was in it that He mirrored the sky.
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The house clock, place certain there at the bottom of things, strikes the half hour dry and null. All is so much, all is so deep, all is so dark and cold!
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If I had written King Lear, I would regret it all my life afterwards. Because that work is so big, that its defects show as huge, its monstrous defects, things even minimal in between some scenes and their possible perfection. It's not the sun with spots; it's a broken greek statue.
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Smell is a strange sight. It evokes sentimental landscapes through a sudden sketching of the subconscious.
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Não sou nada.Nunca serei nada.Não posso querer ser nada.À parte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonhos do mundo.
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My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.
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I never cared about whatever tragic event happened in China. It's faraway decoration, even if in blood and plague.
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Only sterility is noble and dignified. Only killing what never was is elevated and perverse and absurd.
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The beauty of a naked body is felt only by the dressed races.
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They were two and beautiful and wanted to be something else; love delayed itself to them in the tedium of the future, and regret of what would happen to be was already being the daughter of the love they hadn't had.
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What, I believe, produces in me the deep feeling, in which I live, of incongruity with others, is that most think with sensitivity, while I feel with thought.
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'Any road', said Carlyle, 'even this road to Entepfuhl, will take you to the end of the world'. But the Entepfuhl road, if taken in its entirety, and to the end, goes back to Entepfuhl; so Entepfuhl, where we already were, is that very end of the world we were seeking.
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Everything is absurd.
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In today's life, the world belongs only to the stupid, the insensitive and the agitated. The right to live and triumph is now conquered almost by the same means by which you conquer internment in an asylum: the inability to think, amorality and hiperexcitation.
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Action men are the unvoluntary slaves of wise men.
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Changing from the ghosts of faith to the spectres of reason is just changing cells.
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Some sensations are sleeps that take up all the extent of the mind like a fog, don't let us think, don't let us act, don't let us be clearly.
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Life is a thread that someone entangled.
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Knowing not to have illusions is absolutely necessary in order to have dreams.