Art... is merely the refuge which the ingenious have invented, when they were supplied with food and women, to escape the tediousness of life.

Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress on not changing one's mind.

I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world.

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals w…