"He who writes, remains."
But the goal cannot be to 'remain' but to express the truth .
"He who writes, remains."
But the goal cannot be to 'remain' but to express the truth .
It is sometimes good to be with others, but never if it demands loss of self.
The true skeptic does not deny truth. He is an inquirer who so loves truth that he will accept no substitutes, no easy answers, no comforting dogmatisms. That some skeptics become Pyrrhonian slackers is no argument against skepticism properly understood. The true skeptic is an inquirer, not a denier.
Indulgence weakens; resistance strengthens.
Remarkable is the contrast between the face of serenity and the body brutalized.
Ignorance is evil, and the worst ignorance is the ignorance of evil itself: that it is real, and that free will is real, without which evil cannot exist.
The longer the life, the longer the exposure to the brevity of life.
To be human is to be flawed; to be conservative is to know this.
The darkening of the world has this advantage: it inspires us to seek for light where it is more likely to be found.
When there is an excess of agreement, discussions in politics and elsewhere are often tiresome and boring: the parties are as if in competition to see who can express the most outrage. One is preaching to the preachers. But an excess of agreement is better than a paucity thereof. The ideal discussion, however, is one in which broad agreement on fundamentals leaves room for disagreement on details. We are farther from that ideal than we have ever been in these no longer United States.
Husserl seems to think that everything can be brought into the light of adequate, indeed apodictic, evidence. The dark and hidden get their revenge in his most distinguished student, Heidegger.
He who writes enjoys a double pleasure, that of writing, and that of reading what he has written.
Philosophers who are allergic to unclarity make the mistake of thinking that anything that cannot be made totally clear is meaningless and can be dismissed, as if all and only the clear is real.
The old soul sees, while his body is yet young, that this world has nothing to offer us that is finally satisfactory.
Memory is the brake to time's onrush. Brakes sometimes fail. Do these metaphors fail too?