On no other stage are the scenes shifted with a swiftness so like magic as on the great stage of history when once the hour strikes.

Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle that one does not dissolve in one’s bath like a lump of sugar.

The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts.

To ensure the adoration of a theorem for any length of time, faith is not enough; a police force is needed as well.

Any serious attempt to do anything worthwhile is ritualistic.

Nothing from nothing ever yet was born.

The mind is led on, step by step, to defeat its own logic.

Men willingly believe what they wish.

The believer in magic and miracles reflects on how to impose a law on nature—and, in brief, the religious cult is the outcome of this reflection.

Curses are like young chickens, they always come home to roost.

Appearances often are deceiving.

The Mughal’s nature is such that they demand miracles, but if a miracle were to be performed by some upright follower of our religion, they would say that it had been brought about by magic and sorcery. They would strike him down with spears or would stone him to death.

Nothing worth knowing can be understood with the mind.