Despots play their part in the works of thinkers. Fettered words are terrible words. The writer doubles and trebles the power of his writing when a ruler imposes silence on the people. Something emerges from that enforced silence, a mysterious fullness which filters through and becomes steely in the thought.

He had, they said, tasted in succession all the apples of the tree of knowledge, and, whether from hunger or disgust, had ended by tasting the forbidden fruit.

His whole life was now summed up in two words: absolute uncertainty within an impenetrable fog.

...Human thought has no limit. At its risk and peril, it analyzes and dissects its own fascination. We could almost say that, by a sort of splendid reaction, it fascinates nature; the mysterious world surrounding us returns what it receives; it is likely that contemplators are contemplated.

Philosophy is the microscope of thought.

Though one believes in nothing, there are moments in life when one accepts the religion of the temple nearest at hand.

The saints were his friends, and blessed him; the monsters were his friends, and guarded him.