I feel overawed by quantity where counting no longer makes sense. By unrepeatability within such a quantity. By creatures of nature gathered in herds, droves, species, in which each individual, while subservient to the mass, retains some distinguishing features. A crowd of people, birds, insects, or leaves is a mysterious assemblage of variants of certain prototype. A riddle of nature's abhorrence of exact repetition or inability to produce it. Just as the human hand cannot repeat its own gesture, I invoke this disturbing law, switching my own immobile herds into that rhythm.
Nothing defines human beings better than their willingness to do irrational things in the pursuit of phenomenally unlikely payoffs.
Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.
Men are what their mothers made them.
Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.
Making and preserving friends. Select some sound hearts. Be careful not to bruise them with unfeeling words. Take of milk of human kindness one heartful. Add to this plenty of tact. Warm the mixture with plenty of sympathy. Do not let it get too hot at first, lest it only ferment mischief. Knead with plenty of oil of unselfishness to make all smooth. Beware of jars (lovely wording). The mixture should be kept in a warm corner of the heart. Years only serve to improve the flavour of friends thus preserved.
Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don't know each other; they don't know each other because they can not communicate; they can not communicate because they are separated.
It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied.
A fascinating reaction of the human brain when we fail to meet a goal is that it tells us to throw caution to the wind and make things even worse, which ultimately leads to us giving up.
To err is human; to forgive, divine.
For Man is man and master of his fate.
The mark of a moderate man is freedom from his own ideas. Tolerant like the sky, all-pervading like sunlight, firm like a mountain, supple like a tree in the wind, he has no destination in view and makes use of anything life happens to bring his way.
Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.