Bon-Mots
Everybody is a genius, at least once in his life. The only difference is that the so called geniuses have their good ideas thicker. This shows how wise it is to put everything on paper.
It always grieves me when a man of talent dies, for earth has more need of him than heaven.
This book had the effect which all good books have: it made the dull duller, the wise wiser, and the other millions remained unchanged.
One of the greatest discoveries which human reason has made in modern times is, in my opinion, the art of judging books without having read them.
He had a couple of warts on his nose in a position which made them likely to be mistaken for the heads of nails, by means of which that feature might have been fastened to his face.
It is no art to say a thing in few words when you have something to say, like Tacitus. But when you have nothing to say, and write a big book, that’s what I call merit.
He combined the qualities of the greatest men in history: he carried his head on one side like Alexander the Great, he was always scratching his head like Cæsar, he could drink coffee like Leibnitz, and when he was comfortable in his easy-chair he would forget to eat and drink like Newton, and like him it was often necessary to wake him.
“Our forests are growing thinner, the supply of wood is declining, what shall we do?” Oh, when our forests are used up there is surely nothing to hinder our burning books until there is a new supply.
Of all commodities in the market there is none more remarkable than books. Printed by persons who do not understand them; sold by people who do not understand them; bound, reviewed, and read by people who do not understand them; and, best of all, written by people who do not understand them.
He was a most meritorious boy: before he was six years old he could say the Lord’s Prayer backwards.
I have found throughout life that when all other means fail there is nothing that will give you a surer clue to a man’s character than a joke which he takes amiss.
I suppose there is no man in the world who, if he turns thief for a thousand thalers, would not for half the money have preferred to remain the honest fellow he was.
Whosoever says he hates all kinds of flattery, and says it in good faith, has surely not become acquainted with all kinds, in matter or in form. To be sure, people of sense hate ordinary flattery, because they must necessarily feel mortified at the amount of credulity with which the flatterer credits them. That is, they hate ordinary flattery, because to them it is no flattery. According to my experience, there is no very great difference in human nature. Each has his own coin for which he will sell himself. It is human invention to differentiate between human beings; it is pride which supports these distinctions. Nobility of soul is very much of a piece with nobility of birth.
To make persons of discernment believe that you are somewhat which you are not is as a general thing more difficult than to become what you would appear to be.
If you would know what other people think about an affair which concerns you, consider what you would think of them under like circumstances. Do not take any one for more moral in this matter than you are, or for more credulous. This remark is more than half true, and this is saying a great deal for a maxim which a person lays down in his thirtieth year, as I do this one.
One may rail at the faults of a great man, but one must not rail at the man for all that.
It is safe to take it as a sure sign that you are growing better when paying your debts gives you as much pleasure as making money.
Virtue which is the result of good intention is not worth much. Impulse or custom is the thing.
That a false hypothesis is often to be preferred to the true one is shown by the theory of the freedom of human volition. Certainly we are not free, but it requires a very profound study of philosophy not to be misled by this knowledge. Freedom is the easiest explanation, and will remain the most popular one because appearances are for it.—Lichtenberg.
The story was told how St. Dionysius, after he had been beheaded, walked two miles with his head in his hand. “Two miles?” asked one of the company. “Yes, two miles; there is not the least doubt of it,” was the reply. “I will gladly believe you,” said a lady, wittier than the others; “on such occasions it is only the first step which is difficult.”
The French ambassador came to Charles V. with the request that Milan should be ceded to his master the king. Whereupon the emperor merely replied, “The wish of my brother, the King of France, is my own.”
The Duchess of Klingston desired to be admitted to the court circle at Berlin. She requested the Russian minister to take occasion to assure the king of her high esteem, and to tell him that she had been heard to say her fortune was in Rome, her fleet at Venice, and her heart in Berlin. When the king heard this he quickly responded with, “My compliments to the Duchess, and tell her I greatly fear she has favoured us with the least of her possessions.”
A great gentleman said to his servant in a moment of caprice, “Tell me, John, supposing the devil should come to get one of us, which one do you think he would take?”
“He’d take me, without a doubt, your honour.”
“Why so, you absurd fellow?”
“Because he has some chance of losing me, but he is quite sure of you,” was the reply.
A witty king, in travelling through his lands, passed a small provincial town in which great honour was shown him by the magistrate and burgomaster, the latter greeting the monarch in a solemn address. The most conspicuous thing about the portly little man was the well-rounded expansion of his spotless white vest. The day was very cold, and the speech was interminable. Suddenly the king interrupted the speaker, and, as if concerned about his health, pointing to the snowy vest, he graciously remarked, “My dear sir, I fear your Mont Blanc will catch cold!”
The presence of a university makes the country stupid for miles about.—Börne.
With them (the troubadours) it is always the winter that goes and the spring that comes, and the ennui that remains.—Schiller.
If called upon to choose between the pangs of conscience and the pangs of toothache I should unhesitatingly choose the former.
In other countries when a citizen becomes dissatisfied with his government he emigrates, in France he requests the government to emigrate.—Heine.