... Whoever Believes Anything Esteems That It

We Are Born To Inquire After Truth; It Belongs To A Greater Power To Possess It. It Is Not, As Democritus Said, Hid In The Bottom Of The Deeps, But Rather Elevated To An Infinite Height In The Divine Knowledge.

Not Because Socrates Said So, But Because It Is In Truth My Own Disposition — And Perchance To Some Excess — I Look Upon All Men As My Compatriots, And Embrace A Pole As A Frenchman, Making Less Account Of The National Than Of The Universal And Common Bond.

If My Intentions Were Not To Be Read In My Eyes And Voice, I Should Not Have Survived So Long Without Quarrels And Without Harm, Seeing The Indiscreet Freedom With Which I Say, Right Or Wrong, Whatever Comes Into My Head.

When Socrates, After Being Relieved Of His Irons, Felt The Relish Of The Itching That Their Weight Had Caused In His Legs, He Rejoiced To Consider The Close Alliance Between Pain And Pleasure.

All The World Knows Me In My Book, And My Book In Me.