For a truly religious man nothing is tragic.

Courage, not cleverness; not even inspiration, is the grain of mustard that grows up to be a great tree.

Black seems to make a colour cloudy, but darkness doesn't. A ruby could thus keep getting darker without ever becoming cloudy; but if it became blackish red, it would become cloudy.

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

Not only is there no guarantee of the temporal immortality of the human soul, that is to say of its eternal survival after death; but, in any case, this assumption completely fails to accomplish the purpose for which it has always been intended. Or is some riddle solved by my surviving forever? Is not this eternal life itself as much of a riddle as our present life?

You might say that certain words are only pegs to hang intonations on.

A new word is like a fresh seed sown on the ground of the discussion.