A man is called a good fellow for doing things which, if done by a woman, would land her in a lunatic asylum.

Haste is of the devil. Slowness is of God.

Consider him in his highest incarnation: the university professor. What is his function? Simply to pass on to fresh generations of numskulls a body of so-called knowledge that is fragmentary, unimportant, and, in large part, untrue. His whole professional activity is circumscribed by the prejudices, vanities and avarices of his university trustees, i.e., a committee of soap-boilers, nail manufacturers, bank-directors and politicians. The moment he offends these vermin he is undone. He cannot so much as think aloud without running a risk of having them fan his pantaloons.

Men become civilized, not in proportion to their willingness to believe, but in their readiness to doubt.

What the meaning of human life may be I don't know: I incline to suspect that it has none.

A large part of altruism, even when it is perfectly honest, is grounded upon the fact that it is uncomfortable to have unhappy people about one.

The most curious social convention of the great age in which we live is the one to the effect that religious opinions should be respected.