The world is a perpetual caricature of itself; at every moment it is the mockery and the contradiction of what it is pretending to be.

To understand oneself is the classic form of consolation; to elude oneself is the romantic.

Our dignity is not in what we do, but in what we understand.

No system would have ever been framed if people had been simply interested in knowing what is true, whatever it may be. What produces systems is the interest in maintaining against all comers that some favourite or inherited idea of ours is sufficient and right. ** p. 49

Professional philosophers are usually only apologists: that is, they are absorbed in defending some vested illusion or some eloquent idea. Like lawyers or detectives, they study the case for which they are retained.

To covet truth is a very distinguished passion.

The Bible is literature, not dogma.

Miracles are propitious accidents, the natural causes of which are too complicated to be readily understood.

Perhaps the only true dignity of man is his capacity to despise himself.

Let a man once overcome his selfish terror at his own finitude, and his finitude is, in one sense, overcome.

In Walt Whitman democracy is carried into psychology and morals. The various sights, moods, and emotions are given each one vote; they are declared to be all free and equal, and the innumerable commonplace moments of life are suffered to speak like the others. Those moments formerly reputed great are not excluded, but they are made to march in the ranks with their companions—plain foot-soldiers and servants of the hour.

Eternal vigilance is the price of knowledge.

Never since the heroic days of Greece has the world had such a sweet, just, boyish master.

England is the paradise of individuality, eccentricity, heresy, anomalies, hobbies, and humors.

The truth is cruel, but it can be loved, and it makes free those who have loved it.

Our dignity is not in what we do, but in what we understand. The whole world is doing things.

No doubt the spirit or energy of the world is what is acting in us, as the sea is what rises in every little wave; but it passes through us, and cry out as we may, it will move on. Our privilege is to have perceived it as it moves.

Persons who feel themselves to be exiles in this world—and what noble mind, from Empedocles down, has not had that feeling?—are mightily inclined to believe themselves citizens of another.

Whenever a nation is converted to Christianity, its Christianity, in practice, must be largely converted to paganism.

Because the peculiarity of man is that his machinery for reaction on external things has involved an imaginative transcript of these things, which is preserved and suspended in his fancy; and the interest and beauty of this inward landscape, rather than any fortunes that may await his body in the outer world, constitute his proper happiness. By their mind, its scope, quality, and temper, we estimate men, for by the mind only do we exist as men, and are more than so many storage-batteries for material energy. Let us therefore be frankly human. Let us be content to live in the mind.

The pint would call the quart a dualist, if you tried to pour the quart into him.

Oblivious of Democritus, the unwilling materialists of our day have generally been awkwardly intellectual and quite incapable of laughter. If they have felt anything, they have felt melancholy. Their allegiance and affection were still fixed on those mythical sentimental worlds which they saw to be illusory. The mechanical world they believed in could not please them, in spite of its extent and fertility. Giving rhetorical vent to their spleen and prejudice, they exaggerated nature's meagreness and mathematical dryness. When their imagination was chilled they spoke of nature, most unwarrantably, as dead, and when their judgment was heated they took the next step and called it unreal.

History is nothing but assisted and recorded memory. It might almost be said to be no science at all, if memory and faith in memory were not what science necessarily rest on. In order to sift evidence we must rely on some witness, and we must trust experience before we proceed to expand it. The line between what is known scientifically and what has to be assumed in order to support knowledge is impossible to draw. Memory itself is an internal rumour; and when to this hearsay within the mind we add the falsified echoes that reach us from others, we have but a shifting and unseizable basis to build upon. The picture we frame of the past changes continually and grows every day less similar to the original experience which it purports to describe.

Culture is on the horns of this dilemma: if profound and noble, it must remain rare, if common, it must become mean.

Injustice in this world is not something comparative; the wrong is deep, clear, and absolute in each private fate.

It is not society's fault that most men seem to miss their vocation. Most men have no vocation.

To call war the soil of courage and virtue is like calling debauchery the soil of love.

The human race, in its intellectual life, is organized like the bees: the masculine soul is a worker, sexually atrophied, and essentially dedicated to impersonal and universal arts; the feminine is a queen, infinitely fertile, omnipresent in its brooding industry, but passive and abounding in intuitions without method and passions without justice.

The highest form of vanity is love of fame.

Progress, far from consisting in change, depends on retentiveness. When change is absolute there remains no being to improve and no direction is set for possible improvement: and when experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

Fanaticism consists in redoubling your efforts when you have forgotten your aim.

That life is worth living is the most necessary of assumptions and, were it not assumed, the most impossible of conclusions.

What renders man an imaginative and moral being is that in society he gives new aims to his life which could not have existed in solitude: the aims of friendship, religion, science, and art.

When men and women agree, it is only in their conclusions; their reasons are always different.

Art like life should be free, since both are experimental.

The mind celebrates a little triumph whenever it can formulate a truth, however unwelcome to the flesh, or discover an actual force, however unfavourable to given interests.

To know how just a cause we have for grieving is already a consolation.

Every moment celebrates obsequies over the virtues of its predecessor.

Fashion is something barbarous, for it produces innovation without reason and imitation without benefit.

Matters of religion should never be matters of controversy. We neither argue with a lover about his taste, nor condemn him, if we are just, for knowing so human a passion.

Experience has repeatedly confirmed that well-known maxim of Bacon's that "a little philosophy inclineth a man's mind to atheism, but depth in philosophy bringeth men's minds about to religion." At the same time, when Bacon penned that sage epigram... he forgot to add that the God to whom depth in philosophy brings back men's minds is far from being the same from whom a little philosophy estranges them.

Most men's conscience, habits, and opinions are borrowed from convention and gather continual comforting assurances from the same social consensus that originally suggested them.

In proportion as a man's interests become humane and his efforts rational, he appropriates and expands a common life, which reappears in all individuals who reach the same impersonal level of ideas.

Happiness is the only sanction of life; where happiness fails, existence remains a mad and lamentable experiment.

There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval.

Santayana, indeed, is the Moses of the new naturalism, who discerned the promised land from afar but still wanders himself in the desert realms of being.

The idea of Christ is much older than Christianity.

I leave you but the sound of many a wordIn mocking echoes haply overheard,I sang to heaven. My exile made me free,from world to world, from all worlds carried me.

Skepticism, like chastity, should not be relinquished too readily.

They [the wise spirits of antiquity in the first circle of Dante's Inferno] are condemned, Dante tells us, to no other penalty than to live in desire without hope, a fate appropriate to noble souls with a clear vision of life.