Certain authors, speaking of their works, say: “My book,” “My commentary,” “My history,” etc. They resemble middle-class people who have a house of their own and always have “My house” on their tongue.
Truth is so obscured nowadays and lies so well established that unless we love the truth we shall never recognize it.
Weaklings are those who know the truth, but maintain it only as far as it is in their interest to do so, and apart from that forsake it.
No one has ever incurred martyrdom for miracles he claims to have seen; for, in the case of those which the Turks believe by tradition, human folly might go as far as martyrdom, but not for those actually seen.
The church has had as much difficulty in proving that Jesus was man, against those who denied it, as in proving that he was God, and both were equally evident.
This is not the home of truth; it wanders unrecognized among men.
God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob, not of the philosophers and the scholars.
Any man can do what Mahomet did. For he preformed miracles and was not foretold. No man can do what Christ did.
We do not choose as captain of a ship the most highly born of those aboard.
A trifle consoles us because a trifle upsets us.
Love or hate alters the face of justice.
One must know when it is right to doubt, to affirm, to submit. Anyone who does otherwise does not understand the force of reason. Some men run counter to these three principles, either affirming that everything can be proved, because they know nothing about proof, or doubting everything, because they do not know when to submit, or always submitting, because they do not know when judgment is called for.
Two excesses: to exclude reason, to admit nothing but reason.
There is no better proof of human vanity than to consider the causes and effects of love, because the whole universe can be changed by it.
Imagination decides everything: it creates beauty, justice and happiness, which is the world’s supreme good.
The ordinary life of men is like that of saints. They all seek satisfaction, and differ only according to the object in which they locate it.
Our own interest is another wonderful instrument for blinding us agreeably.
Ambiguity goes just so far and no further.
Things have various qualities and the soul various tendencies, for nothing presented to the soul is simple, and the soul never applies itself simply to any subject. That is why the same thing makes us laugh and cry.
We are so unhappy that we can only enjoy something which we should be annoyed to see go wrong, and that can and does constantly happen to thousands of things. Anyone who found the secret of rejoicing when things go well without being annoyed when they go badly would have found the point. It is perpetual motion.
One must know oneself. Even if that does not help in finding truth, at least it helps in running one’s life, and nothing is more proper.