The author should die once he has finished writing. So as not to trouble the path of the text.

Yes, I know, it's not the truth, but in a great history little truths can be altered so that the greater truth emerges.

Man's principle trait is a readiness to believe anything. Otherwise, how could the Church have survived for almost two thousand years in the absense of universal gullibility?

A secret is powerful when it is empty.

And we, inhabitants of the great coral of the Cosmos, believe the atom (which still we cannot see) to be full matter, whereas, it too, like everything else, is but an embroidery of voids in the Void, and we give the name of being, dense and even eternal, to that dance of inconsistencies, that infinite extension that is identified with absolute Nothingness and that spins from its own non-being the illusion of everything.

That day, I began to be incredulous. Or, rather, I regretted having been credulous. I regretted having allowed myself to be borne away by a passion of the mind. Such is credulity.

Whenever a poet or preacher, chief or wizard spouts gibberish, the human race spends centuries deciphering the message.