I felt like poisoning a monk.

There is a constant in the average American imagination and taste, for which the past must be preserved and celebrated in full-scale authentic copy; a philosophy of immortality as duplication. It dominates the relation with the self, with the past, not infrequently with the present, always with History and, even, with the European tradition.

The French, the Italians, the Germans, the Spanish and the English have spent centuries killing each other.

Not that the incredulous person doesn't believe in anything. It's just that he doesn't believe in everything.

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

From lies to forgeries the step is not so long, and I have written technical essays on the logic of forgeries and on the influence of forgeries on history.

The Devil is not the Prince of Matter; the Devil is the arrogance of the spirit, faith without smile, truth that is never seized by doubt. The Devil is grim because he knows where he is going, and, in moving, he always returns whence he came.