If a man loves a woman for her beauty, does he love her? No; for the smallpox, which destroys her beauty without killing her, causes his love to cease. And if any one loves me for my judgment or my memory, does he really love me? No; for I can lose these qualities without ceasing to be.

Those who are clever in imagination are far more pleased with themselves than prudent men could reasonably be.

I condemn equally those who choose to praise man, those who choose to condemn him and those who choose to divert themselves, and I can only approve of those who seek with groans.

Is it courage in a dying man to go, in weakness and in agony, to affront an almighty and eternal God?

The philosophers talk to you about the dignity of man, and they tempt you to pride, or they talk to you about the misery of man, and they tempt you to despair.

It is not in Montaigne, but in myself, that I find all that I see in him.

If I had more time I would write a shorter letter.