At the beginning of human history, as we struggled to light fires and to chisel fallen trees into rudimentary canoes, who could have predicted that long after we had managed to send men to the moon and areoplanes to Australasia, we would still have such trouble knowing how to tolerate ourselves, forgive our loved ones, and apologise for our tantrums?

We often lose our tempers not with those who are actually to blame; just with those who love us enough to forgive us our foul moods.

The attentions of others matter to us because we are afflicted by a congenital uncertainty as to our own value, as a result of which affliction we tend to allow others' appraisals to play a determining role in how we see ourselves. Our sense of identity is held captive by the judgements of those we live among.

We should keep a careful diary of our moments of envy: they are our covert guides to what we should try to do next.

It's clear to me that there is no good reason for many philosophy books to sound as complicated as they do.

I feel that the great challenge of our time is the communication of ideas.

When I see someone like Richard Dawkins, I see my father. I grew up with that. I'm basically the child of Richard Dawkins.