We mourn the transitory things and fret under the yoke of the immutable ones.
To judge a man's character by only one of its manifestations is like judging the sea by a jugful of its water.
In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled.
Man is ready to die for an idea, provided that idea is not quite clear to him.
With the stones we cast at them, geniuses build new roads with them.
Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.
A man is most accurately judged by how he treats those who are not in a position either to retaliate or to reciprocate.
It is not true that men prefer foolish women. Rather they prefer women who can simulate foolishness whenever necessary, which is the very core of intelligence.
To have lived long does not necessarily imply the gathering of much wisdom and experience. One who has pedaled twenty-five thousand miles on a stationary bicycle has not circled the globe. He or she has only garnered weariness.
Jealousy would be far less torturous if we understood that love is a passion entirely unrelated to our merits.
We endeavor to stuff the universe into the gullet of an aphorism.
Having read the inscriptions upon the tombstones of the great and little cemeteries, Wang Peng advised the Emperor to kill all the living and resurrect the dead.
We hew and saw and plane facts to make them dovetail with our prejudices, so that they become mere ornaments with which to parade our objectivity.
For having expressed an opinion, however far-fetched, we straightway become its slave, ready to die defending it, and even ready to believe it. And many continue to be martyrs to causes which have ceased to exist, their crowns rusting upon their heads as tin wreaths rust upon forgotten tombs.
History is the transformation of tumultuous conquerors into silent footnotes.
If we were brought to trial for the crimes we have committed against ourselves, few would escape the gallows.
Many a necklace becomes a noose.
Reading the epitaphs, our only salvation lies in resurrecting the dead and burying the living.
Avarice is fear sheathed in gold.
Reason is the shepherd trying to corral life's vast flock of wild irrationalities.
Authors hide their big thefts by putting small ones between quotation marks.
There are those whose sole claim to profundity is the discovery of exceptions to the rules.
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