I would prefer an intelligent hell to a stupid paradise.
Quand on voit le style naturel, on est tout e tonne et ravi, car on s’attendait de voir un auteur, et on trouve un homme. When we see a natural style we are quite amazed and delighted, because we expected to see an author and find a man.
Le silence e ternel de ces espaces infinis m’effraie. The eternal silence of these infinite spaces fills me with dread.
Nothing is as approved as mediocrity, the majority has established it and it fixes it fangs on whatever gets beyond it either way.
Quelque e tendue d’esprit que l’on ait, l’on n’est capable que d’une grande passion. However vast a man’s spirit, he is only capable of one great passion.
Condition de l’homme: inconstance, ennui, inquie tude. Man’s condition. Inconstancy, boredom, anxiety.
Notre nature est dans le mouvement; le repos entier est la mort. Our nature consists in movement; absolute rest is death.
E? loquence quipersuade par douceur, non par empire, en tyran, non en roi. Eloquence should persuade gently, not by force or like a tyrant or king.
Le silence est la plus grande perse cution: jamais les saints ne se sont tus. Silence is the greatest of all persecutions: no saint was ever silent.
That something so obvious as the vanity of the world should be so little recognized that people find it odd and surprising to be told that it is foolish to seek greatness; that is most remarkable.
All that tends not to charity is figurative. The sole aim of the Scripture is charity.
Instinct teaches us to look for happiness outside ourselves.
Great and small suffer the same mishaps.
The last advance of reason is to recognize that it is surpassed by innumerable things; it is feeble if it cannot realize that.
Our own interests are still an exquisite means for dazzling our eyes agreeably.
All is one, all is different. How many natures exist in man? How many vocations? And by what chance does each man ordinarily choose what he has heard praised?
Admiration spoils all from infancy.
Nature has made all her truths independent of one another. Our art makes one dependent on the other. But this is not natural. Each keeps its own place.
Nothing is so conformable to reason as to disavow reason.
Notwithstanding the sight of all our miseries, which press upon us and take us by the throat, we have an instinct which we cannot repress, and which lifts us up.
To find recreation in amusements is not happiness; for this joy springs from alien and extrinsic sources, and is therefore dependent upon and subject to interruption by a thousand accidents, which may minister inevitable affliction.