I am no man. I am dynamite.

I know my fate. One day there will be associated with my name the recollection of something frightful / of a crisis like no other before on earth, of the profoundest collision of conscience, of a decision evoked against everything that until then had been believed in, demanded, sanctified. I am not a man I am dynamite.

Blessed are the forgetful; for they get the better even of their blunders

Such a man as instinctively feeds on pure ambrosia and leaves alone the indigestible in things.

Love is a state in which a man sees things most decidedly as they are not

Is man one of God's blunders? Or is God one of man's blunders?