Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.

Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.

The more we try to rest ourselves from our ego, the deeper we sink into it.

The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.