No pleasure is fully delightful without communications, and no delight absolute except imparted.

Books are a languid pleasure.

There is some shadow of delight and delicacy which smiles upon and flatters us even in the very lap of melancholy.

This notion [skepticism] is more clearly understood by asking "What do I know?"

Just as in habiliments it is a sign of weakness to wish to make oneself noticeable by some peculiar and unaccustomed fashion, so, in language, the quest for new-fangled phrases and little-known words comes from a puerile and pedantic ambition.

Presumption is our natural and original malady. The most vulnerable and frail of all creatures is man, and at the same time the most arrogant.

Is it not better to remain in suspense than to entangle yourself in the many errors that the human fancy has produced? Is it not better to suspend your convictions than to get mixed up in these seditious and quarrelsome divisions?