One loves ultimately one's desires, not the thing desired.

For men are not equal: thus speaks justice.

To find everything profound - that is an inconvenient trait. It makes one strain one's eyes all the time, and in the end one finds more than one might have wished.

What makes us heroic?--Confronting simultaneously our supreme suffering and our supreme hope.

Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. Woe to the thinker who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in him.

In the knowledge of truth, what really matters is the possession of it, not the impulse under which it was sought.

That which does not destroy, strengthens.