Best 15727 quotes in «philosophy quotes» category

He clearly suffers from some past traumas too, so hopefully he'll understand why I was untruthful to him about mine.

He confided his deepest secret to you; be always wary of his secret.

He consigned Nietzsche to the things he needed to leave behind: 'I am convinced, though, that it is precisely the readers and writers on Nietzsche who have no future; for when all is said and done, Nietzsche too is of the old school. Secretly he had more homesickness for the land of the Greeks than for the country of Zarathustra's childhood ... If I voyage on the ship of modernity, then I am one of those who look past the busy industriousness and the revelries of my fellow passengers and gaze back at the sinking, temple-shrewn shores of the land we have left behind.' But the way in which he concludes this passage does not sound at all melancholic, revealing instead an impetuous urge to plow his own furrow: 'Indeed, what is Nietzsche to us? Or philosophy in general? An exercise, mental gymnastics, something pleasant and useful! But what's the point of that?

He did not wish to be divine. If there had never been a God, the emperor thought, it might have been easier to work out what goodness was. This business of worship, of the abnegation of self in the face of the Almighty, was a distraction, a false trail. Wherever goodness lay, it did not lie in ritual, unthinking obeisance before a deity but rather, perhaps, in the slow, clumsy, error-strewn working out of an individual or collective path.

...he didn't know if he was Chuang Tzu who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Chuang Tzu.

He died that day because his body had served its purpose. His soul had done what it came to do, learned what it came to learn, and then was free to leave.

He feels a second pang now for the existence of perfection, the stubborn existence of perfection in the most vulnerable of things and in the face of his refusal-logical-admirable refusal-to engage with this existence in his heart, in his mind. For the comfortless logic, the curse of clear sight, no matter which string he pulls on the same wretched knot: (a) the futility of seeing given the fatality in a place such as this where a mother still bloody must bury her newborn, hose off, and go home to pound yam into paste; (b) the persistence of beauty, in fragility of all places!, in a dewdrop at daybreak, a thing that will end, and in moments, and in a garden, and in Ghana, lush Ghana, soft Ghana, verdant Ghana, where fragile things die.

He gave me the strength to see passed all that is trivial in this world and to focus on that which matters most.

He gave up. No hint of ember behind his eyes nor life in his breath. He snipped the last, overstretched strand of hope, and nicked the strand of life by mistake. He did it with his hands.

He had become a moster, happily, for just a moment of having his head above water.

He had reached his goal. He had climbed the unclimbable mountain

Heidegger is the philosopher to whom especially postmodernists chiefly appeal in their radical rejections of metaphysics and of any and every conception of the entirety of actuality, of Being as such and as a whole. To be sure, their appeals to Heidegger are as a rule extraordinarily superficial ones. These authors come nowhere near to providing adequate interpretations of or appropriations from Heidegger. To the contrary, the Heidegger who is the major source of postmodern thinking is (so to speak) a Heidegger à la française, but this distorted Heidegger has come to have a significant influence on thinkers in other countries as well. (pp. 7-8)

He is deaf, and keen to accept, any economical operation, that will correct his situation. He visited the doctor best, and started talking on subject, like the after-effects, and if any threats. The doctor medically checked, and asked him what he expects? He expressed, he wants to be addressed- in words, and not in signs. And how keen he is, to have his ears listening. He wants to listen the echo of, sun-set over that crimson dawn. He is keen to know, the sound of, a blooming rose. He wants to know what it sounds like, when a seedling grows. But Doctor- if you say: You are incapable, then I better get away, for then there is- nothing worth to be heard, in your seemingly wordy world.

He is here to show the worlds of The Cosmos the philosophy of the stars.

He is all to all and The Philosophy is all to all.

He is the best friend you would ever have.

Held by a thread, hung from the heavens, companion to the winds, and swayed by the mandarins of time.

He learned...never to show his anger or hatred against a stronger adversary, for fear of being crushed.

Hello! Look at me! I am your reflection.

Hell is not a place, but a state of mind born from stress. Hell holds our insecurities, our fears, and it is ultimately the domicile of the devil within. The devil breathes and thrives in the fragment of our hearts that we dare not visit; yet, we can only make peace with ourselves by diving into the pits of hell and having an honest conversation with the devil himself.

He’ll always be living in a timeless warp, endlessly morphing into what anyone needs him to be.

He looked with deep attention to me as if he was drinking in my style, my charms, and my beauty.

Hello winter! My heart is warm and ready to enjoy your cool loving touch of beauty and splendor.

Help anyone who comes to you, as much as lies in your power, not because you are good person, nor because you want to be adored, but because you are a real human – a real human of the civilized society.

Hell's got high waters ever since humans tried to free it over. - The Malwatch

Helpfulness is the enemy of greed

Helping other people can be a cure not just for those who are in need, but for your soul as well.

Help your father As he ages And loses his strength For it was he who sheltered you And protected you from the storms KhoiSan Book of Wisdom

Help humanity to help yourself. Love humanity to love yourself.

He made her his world. She chose her own.

Hence a young man is not a proper hearer of lectures on political science; for he is inexperienced in the actions that occur in life, but its discussions start from these and are about these; and, further, since he tends to follow his passions, his study will be vain and unprofitable, because the end aimed at is not knowledge but action. And it makes no difference whether he is young in years or youthful in character; the defect does not depend on time, but on his living, and pursuing each successive object, as passion directs. For to such persons, as to the incontinent, knowledge brings no profit; but to those who desire and act in accordance with a rational principle knowledge about such matters will be of great benefit.

Hence the great irony: Hayek, one of the greatest champions of individual liberty and economic freedom the world has ever known, believed that knowledge was communal. Dewey, the champion of socialism and collectivism, believed that knowledge was individual. Hayek's is a philosophy that treats individuals as the best judges of their own self-interests, which in turn yield staggering communal cooperation. Dewey's was the philosophy of a giant, Monty Pythonesque crowd shouting on cue: "We're All Individuals!

Hence this life of yours which you are living is not merely a piece of the entire existence, but is in a certain sense the whole; only this whole is not so constituted that it can be surveyed in one single glance. This, as we know, is what the Brahmins express in that sacred, mystic formula which is yet really so simple and so clear: Tat tvam asi, this is you. Or, again, in such words as 'I am in the east and in the west, I am below and above, I am this whole world'. Thus you can throw yourself flat on the ground, stretched out upon Mother Earth, with the certain conviction that you are one with her and she with you. You are as firmly established, as invulnerable as she, indeed a thousand times firmer and more invulnerable. As surely she will engulf you tomorrow, so surely will she bring you forth anew to new striving and suffering. And not merely 'some day': now, today, every day she is bringing you forth, not once but thousands upon thousands of times, just as every day she engulfs you a thousand times over. For eternally and always there is only now, one and the same now; the present is the only thing that has no end.

Heraclitus once said "we cannot exist without strife" but that does not mean we cannot co-exist without it.

Heraclitus, Empedocles, and Parmenides all state or suggest that thinking the right kinds of thoughts positively transforms our relationship to our environment. If thoughts are the right kind, it is presumably because they build on the particular receptivity of human nature to true knowledge about the nature of things, knowledge that, in turn, brings the person into greater harmony with the world around him. Thought is thus a uniquely transformative encounter with reality.

HER BARBED-WIRE SMILE LIFTED YOU TO HEAVEN BUT I HAVE TO ASK DID GOD LOOK LIKE HER VOICE

Here I would point out, as a symptom equally worthy of notice, the ABSENCE OF FEELING which usually accompanies laughter. It seems as though the comic could not produce its disturbing effect unless it fell, so to say, on the surface of a soul that is thoroughly calm and unruffled. Indifference is its natural environment, for laughter has no greater foe than emotion. I do not mean that we could not laugh at a person who inspires us with pity, for instance, or even with affection, but in such a case we must, for the moment, put our affection out of court and impose silence upon our pity. In a society composed of pure intelligences there would probably be no more tears, though perhaps there would still be laughter; whereas highly emotional souls, in tune and unison with life, in whom every event would be sentimentally prolonged and re-echoed, would neither know nor understand laughter.

He rejoices in the reason conferred on mankind but mistrusts the shifting sands of man's ingenuity.

Here was enough transcendentalism to drive even a cave-dwelling Tibetan holy man insane. Jack Sawyer was everywhere; Jack Sawyer was everything.

Her body is a philosophical novel that proves the existence of extraterrestrial life forms.

Here is your great soul—the man who has given himself over to Fate; on the other hand, that man is a weakling and a degenerate who struggles and maligns the order of the universe and would rather reform the gods than reform himself.

Here it is: there's only one story. There, I said it and I can't very well take it back. There is only one story. Ever. One. It's always been going on and it's everywhere around us and every story you've ever read or heard or watched is part of it.

Here is my final point. About drugs, about alcohol, about pornography and smoking and everything else. What business is it of yours what I do, read, buy, see, say, think, who I fuck, what I take into my body - as long as I do not harm another human being on this planet?

Heroes are hero no matter if everybody is watching them or nobody watching them.

Her ideas of national honor seem devoid of that benevolence of heart, that universal expansion of philanthropy, and that triumph over the rage of vulgar prejudice, without which man is inferior to himself, and a companion of common animals. To know who she shall regard or dislike, she asks what country they are of, what religion they profess, and what property they enjoy. Her idea of national honor seems to consist in national insult, and that to be a great people, is to be neither a Christian, a philosopher, or a gentlemen, but to threaten with the rudeness of a bear, and to devour with the ferocity of a lion.

Hero' is not an official status or designation, but if the world recognize you as a hero, it is the highest honor you will ever receive.

Her question was clear- “Father, where does the Loss reside?” In the sighs? Cheeks with tears wiped? A lost appetite? Owning a room confined? Or in the smiles all falsified? Thus, the Father decide, It is no matter to hide, he replied- “I think its deep inside, Probably, In the layers of your soul, Where the body provides it, Ample food to be- Magnified, multiplied, intensified. But once you clarify, That its not to be occupied inside, It starves of supplies, And dies. So child, when there is loss, Make sure you refuse to invite it inward, And absolutely never make it your lifelong parasite.

He sang softly, less with words and more with thought. She cradled his head, stitching together his fragmented heart.

He, sent by a mysterious force, gave me my place in this world.

He spoke in polished honesty free of liar's filth. He said the hardest words with an unshakable voice, a wide smile, with fear and doubt freezing over his core. The truth was the best route, but the truth could always be costly... another truth. A sad truth.