All the good writers of confessions, from Augustine onwards, are men who are still a little in love with their sins.
There, in a livid light, the demons tormented the souls of the damned. The souls preserved the appearance of the bodies which had held them, and even wore some rags of clothing. These souls seemed peaceful in the midst of their torments.
In its majestic equality, the law forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges...
Man is summed up in Art. All the rest is moonshine.
But don’t you ever tell me the Revolution will bring equality, because men’ll never be equal. It’s just not possible. They can turn the country upside down and inside out, there’ll always be the big people and the little people, the fat ones and the thin ones.
For our miserable species would never lavish worship on a just and benevolent God from whom they had nothing to fear; they would only feel an empty and thankless gratitude for their benefits. Without purgatory and hell, your God would indeed be a useless creature.
For you can always tell the gods by their appetite.
They did not understand that war, which trained courage and founded the cities of barbarous and ignorant men, brings to victor himself but ruin and misery, and is nothing but a horrible and stupid crime when nations are united together by common bonds of art, science, and trade.
When it does not yield to the rudder,” said he to them, “the ship yields to the rock.
But I deny that He created the world; at the most He organised but an inferior part of it, and all that He touched bears the mark of His rough and unforeseeing touch.
You cry, “give us war!” You are visionaries. When will you become thinkers? The thinkers do not look for power and strength from any of the dreams that constitute military art: tactics, strategies, fortifications, artillery and all that rubbish. They do no believe in war, which is a fantasy; they believe in chemistry, which is a science. They know the way to put victory into an algebraic formula.
On croit mourir pour la patrie ; on meurt pour des industriels.
We should adopt his principles and govern men as they are and not as what we’d like them to be.
He left Penguinia impoverished and depopulated. The flower of the insula perished in his wars. At the time of his fall there were left in our country none but the hunchbacks and cripples from whom we are descended. But he gave us glory.” “He made you pay dearly for it!” “Glory never costs too much,” replied my guide.
The Christian state,” said St. Cornelius, “is not without serious inconveniences for a penguin. In it the birds are obliged to work out their own salvation. How can they succeed? The habits of birds are, in many points, contrary to the commandments of the Church, and the penguins have no reason for changing theirs. I mean that they are not intelligent enough to give up their present habits and assume better.
I see only one solution,” said St. Augustine. “The penguins will go to hell.” “But they have no soul,” observed St. Irenaeus. “It is a pity”” sighed Tertullian.
Take care, father,” said Bulloch gently, “that what you call murder and robbery may not really be war and conquest, those sacred foundations of empires, those sources of all human virtues and all human greatness.
For all armies are the finest in the world. The second finest army, if one could exist, would be in a notoriously inferior position; it would be certain to be beaten. It ought to be disbanded at once. Therefore, all armies are the finest in the world.
In every household the Revolution had emptied the cooking-pot.
But on what can intelligence sharpen its wits, in a country where the climate is soft and existence made easy? Even here, where necessity calls for intellectual activity, nothing is rarer than a person who thinks.
To know is nothing at all; to imagine is everything. Nothing exists except that which is imagined.