In a man devoted to knowledge, pity seems almost ridiculous, like delicate hands on a cyclops.

The value of many men and books rests solely on their faculty for compelling all to seek out the most hidden and intimate things.

A refined nature is vexed by knowing that some one owes it thanks, a coarse nature by knowing that it owes thanks to some one.

He who thinks a great deal is not suited to be a party man: he thinks his way through the party and out the other side too soon.

Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that has gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it from me. I wish to spread it and bestow it, until the wise have once more become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches.

He who possesses greatness is cruel towards his secondary virtues and considerations.

All truth is simple... is that not doubly a lie?