It Is The Contest That Delights Us,

Since [man] Is Infinitely Removed From Comprehending The Extremes, The End Of Things And Their Beginning Are Hopelessly Hidden From Him In An Impenetrable Secret; He Is Equally Incapable Of Seeing The Nothing From Which He Was Made, And The Infinite In Which He Is Swallowed Up.

The Last Thing We Decide In Writing A Book Is What To Put First.

Man Is So Made That If He Is Told Often Enough That He Is A Fool He Believes It.

To Deny, To Believe, And To Doubt Well, Are To A Man What The Race Is To A Horse.

Distraction Is The Only Thing That Consoles Us For Our Miseries. Yet It Is Itself The Greatest Of Our Miseries.