Nature is a book, a letter, a fairy tale (in the philosophical sense) or whatever you want to call it.
Everything the human being heard from the beginning, saw with its eyes, looked upon and touched with its hands was a living word; for God was the word.
A writer who is in a hurry to be understood today or tomorrow runs the danger of being misunderstood the day after tomorrow.
Hence it happens that one takes words for concepts, and concepts for the things themselves.
The thirst for vengeance was the beautiful nature which Homer imitated.
If only I was as eloquent as Demosthenes, I would have to do no more than repeat a single word three times.
Not only the entire ability to think rests on language… but language is also the crux of the misunderstanding of reason with itself.
The farther reason looks the greater is the haze in which it loses itself.
Physics is nothing but the ABC’s. Nature is an equation with an unknown, a Hebrew word which is written only with consonants to which reason has to add the dots.
All human wisdom works and has worries and grief as reward.