Someone said: "I have been prejudiced against myself from my earliest childhood: hence I find some truth in all blame and some stupidity in all praise. I generally estimate praise too poorly and blame too highly.

The value of life itself cannot be estimated.

He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays and tragic realities.

Robinson had a servant even better than Friday: His name was Crusoe.

A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.

That which an age considers evil is usually an unseasonable echo of what was formerly considered good - the atavism of an old ideal.

Truth is a mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, anthropomorphisms, in short a sum of human relations which have been subjected to poetic and rhetorical intensification, translation and decoration […]; truths are illusions of which we have forgotten that they are illusions, metaphors which have become worn by frequent use and have lost all sensuous vigour […]. Yet we still do not know where the drive to truth comes from, for so far we have only heard about the obligation to be truthful which society imposes in order to exist" from, "On Truth and Lying in a Non-Moral Sense".