Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.

No finite point has meaning without an infinite reference point.

One always dies too soon or too late. And yet, life is there, finished: the line is drawn, and it must all be added up. You are nothing other than your life.

Neither sex, without some fertilization of the complimentary characters of the other, is capable of the highest reaches of human endeavor.

Everything has been figured out, except how to live.

That God does not exist, I cannot deny, That my whole being cries out for God I cannot forget.