“Everything is an illusion.”

I have encountered in this world riff-raff and good people. I lose. I win. I defend myself when I am attacked. I take when someone has taken from me. But I beg you to believe me; I have never done an act of espionage against France. Never. Never.

My dance is a sacred poem in which each movement is a word and whose every word is underlined by music. The temple in which I dance can be vague or faithfully reproduced, for I am the temple.

I was not content at home. . . I wanted to live like a colorful butterfly in the sun.

Death is nothing, nor life either, for that matter. To die, to sleep, to pass into nothingness, what does it matter? Everything is an illusion.

The dance is a poem of which each movement is a word.

I am a woman who enjoys herself very much; sometimes I lose, sometimes I win.

We’re all mad, the whole damned race. We’re wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we’re all mad and in solitary confinement.

The world is an illusion, but an illusion which we must take seriously.

If most of us remain ignorant of ourselves, it is because self-knowledge is painful and we prefer the pleasures of illusion.

The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

Religion is an illusion of childhood, outgrown under proper education.

A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.

He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.

Conduct, which involves a decision of the ultimate fate of the agent cannot be based on illusions.