“Provided a man is not mad, he can be cured of any folly but vanity; there is no cure for this but experience, if indeed there is any cure for it at all”

― Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile

topic:experience vanity

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“Everything starts somewhere, although many physicists disagree. But people have always been dimly aware of the problem with the start of things. They wonder aloud how the snowplow driver gets to work, or how the makers of dictionaries look up the...”

― Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

“Since people are going to be living longer and getting older, they'll just have to learn how to be babies longer.”

― Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol

“If we were all given by magic the power to read each other's thoughts I suppose the first effect would be that almost all friendships would be dissolved”

― Bertrand Russell, The Conquest of Happiness

“The singing of a man cast away upon a desolate island might be as appropriately considered as evidence of contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave; the songs of the one and of the other are prompted by the same emotion.”

― Frederick Douglass, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

“Any woman who is sure of her own wits is a match at any time for a man who is not sure of his own temper.”

― Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White

“It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.”

― Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations

“I have observed this in my experience of slavery,—that whenever my condition was improved, instead of its increasing my contentment, it only increased my desire to be free, and set me to thinking of plans to gain my freedom.”

― Frederick Douglass, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

“Ye shall only have enemies to be hated, but not enemies to be despised.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

“I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good friends;”

― William Shakespeare, Richard II

“What a psalm the storm was singing, and how fresh the smell of the washed earth and leaves, and how sweet the still small voices of the storm!”

― John Muir, Stickeen

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