The Breath Of The Mind Is Attention.

The Soul Paints Itself In Our Machines.

The Lively Phraseology Of Montesquieu Was The Result Of Long Meditation. His Words, As Light As Wings, Bear On Them Grave Reflections.

We Disjoint The Mind Like The Body.

Luckily, I Never Feel At One Time More Than Half My Pains.

I Do Not Call Reason That Brutal Reason Which Crushes With Its Weight What Is Holy And Sacred, That Malignant Reason Which Delights In The Errors It Succeeds In Discovering, That Unfeeling And Scornful Reason Which Insults Credulity.