Who makes us ignorant? We ourselves. We put our hands over our eyes and weep that it is dark.
Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.
Our true nationality is mankind.
Everything can be taken from a man or a woman but one thing: the last of human freedoms to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.
I just invent, then wait until man comes around to needing what I've invented.
There are four million different kinds of animals and plants in the world. Thatís four million solutions to the problem of staying alive.
The great gift of human beings is that we have the power of empathy, we can all sense a mysterious connection to each other.
He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper.
There is no come back to caves. We are too many.
A question that sometimes drives me hazy: Am I, or the others, crazy?
What sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity. These are but trifles, to be sure; but scattered along life's pathway, the good they do is inconceivable.
Everywhere man blames nature and fate yet his fate is mostly but the echo of his character and passion, his mistakes and his weaknesses.
A narrow mind and a fat head invariably come on the same person.
It's funny how humans can wrap their mind around things and fit them into their version of reality.
Not only will we have to repent for the sins of bad people; but we also will have to repent for the appalling silence of good people.
There seems to be some perverse human characteristic that likes to make easy things difficult.
The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.
All sins are attempts to fill voids.
It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.
I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not the madness of people.
We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.