[T]he appropriate form of address between man and man ought to be, not monsieur, sir, but fellow sufferer, compagnon de miseres.

Consciousness is the mere surface of our minds, of which, as of the earth, we do not know the inside, but only the crust.

There are, first of all, two kinds of authors: those who write for the subject's sake, and those who write for writing's sake.

We can regard our life as a uselessly disturbing episode in the blissful repose of nothingness.

Just as the largest library, badly arranged, is not so useful as a very moderate one that is well arranged, so the greatest amount of knowledge, if not elaborated by our own thoughts, is worth much less than a far smaller volume that has been abundantly and repeatedly thought over.

Honour is external conscience, and conscience is inward honour.

Still, instead of trusting what their own minds tell them, men have as a rule a weakness for trusting others who pretend to supernatural sources of knowledge.