Regarding life, the wisest men of all ages have judged alike: it is worthless.

Science rushes headlong, without selectivity, without "taste," at whatever is knowable, in the blind desire to know all at any cost.

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

How far is truth susceptible of embodiment? That is the question, that is the experiment.

What I understand by "philosopher": a terrible explosive in the presence of which everything is in danger.

I am the leading strings of the ego and the prompter of its concepts.

Most thinkers write badly, because they communicate not only their thoughts, but also the thinking of them.