We mourn the transitory things and fret under the yoke of the immutable ones.

For having expressed an opinion, however far-fetched, we straightway become its slave, ready to die defending it, and even ready to believe it. And many continue to be martyrs to causes which have ceased to exist, their crowns rusting upon their heads as tin wreaths rust upon forgotten tombs.

Reason is the shepherd trying to corral life's vast flock of wild irrationalities.

Man is ready to die for an idea, provided that idea is not quite clear to him.

We hew and saw and plane facts to make them dovetail with our prejudices, so that they become mere ornaments with which to parade our objectivity.

To judge a man's character by only one of its manifestations is like judging the sea by a jugful of its water.

Jealousy would be far less torturous if we understood that love is a passion entirely unrelated to our merits.