The Senses Do Not Deceive Us, But

All Our Knowledge Is Symbolic.

Ill-humor Is Nothing More Than An Inward Feeling Of Our Own Want Of Merit, A Dissatisfaction With Ourselves Which Is Always United With An Envy That Foolish Vanity Excites.

Mathematicians Are Like Frenchmen: Whatever You Say To Them They Translate Into Their Own Language And Forthwith It Is Something Entirely Different.

Assuredly There Is No More Lovely Worship Of God Than That For Which No Image Is Required, But Which Springs Up In Our Breast Spontaneously When Nature Speaks To The Soul, And The Soul Speaks To Nature Face To Face.

A Man Who Cannot Command Himself Will Always Be A Slave.