You can't out-perform your self-image.

In the dim background of our mind we know meanwhile what we ought to be doing: getting up, dressing ourselves, answering the person who has spoken to us, trying to make the next step in our reasoning. But somehow we cannot start.

Most men have a good memory for facts connected with their own pursuits.

Where is it, this present? It has melted in our grasp, fled ere we could touch it, gone in the instant of becoming.

We may be in the Universe as dogs and cats are in our libraries, seeing the books and hearing the conversation, but having no inkling of the meaning of it all.

The unrest which keeps the never stopping clock of metaphysics going is the thought that the nonexistence of this world is just as possible as its existence.

All our scientific and philosophic ideals are altars to unknown gods.