Philosophy Quotes - Page 9

A writer always writes.

Do you know what I think about crying? I think some people have to learn to do it. But once you learn, once you know how to really cry, there's nothing quite like it. I feel sorry for those who don't know the trick. It's like whistling or singing.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

when a language dies, a way of understanding the world dies with it, a way of looking at the world.

To assess the quality of thoughts of people, don't listen to their words, but watch their actions.

We are citizens of the world. The tragedy of our times is that we do not know this.

The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.

Without living, how can you know? Without knowing, how can you speak?

When the writing is good, a book becomes a mirror. The reader will see an uncanny familiarity and respond accordingly.

You are what your creators and experiences have made you, like every other being in this universe. Accept that and be done; I tire of your whining.

One of the professors told me last week that he feels bad teaching with the way the economy is now. ‘What’s the point?’ he said. ‘Kids aren’t getting jobs.’ You never hear faculty talk that way. He did.

By the time we began to understand enough about what the world to ask the right questions, our visit is over, and someone else is visiting, asking the same questions.

If you do something that has never been done you will collect treasures that have never been found.

The world is a garden of philosophy. God is its gardener; Man is the visitor.
And any tree that does not bear fruits of philosophy either does not belong to
that garden or is yet to be grown.

When the mind is free, magic happens.

If by any chance a playwright wishes to express a political opinion or a moral opinion or a philosophy, he must be a good enough craftsman to do it with so much spice of entertainment in it that the public get the message without being aware of it.

Because in some other universe, you are me, I am you, and we are perfectly happy together. Or perhaps not… and just like this…

Give love, take pride

For the former, activity, any kind of activity, was an end in itself; for the latter, activity was but a progress toward the true end, which was rest, and peace of mind. Action was to be undertaken only when equilibrium was disturbed.

Not all of Derrida's writing is to everyone's taste. He had an irritating habit of overusing the rhetorical question, which lends itself easily to parody: 'What is it, to speak? How can I even speak of this? Who is this "I" who speaks of speaking?