Read, think well of mankind, go to our libraries and rejoice.

يقول سبينوزا: وعندما يبدو لنا أي شيء في الطبيعة مضحكاً أو سخيفاً، غامضاً أو شراً فذلك لأننا ليست لدينا سوى معرفة قليلة بالأشياء، وأننا جاهلون بنظام الطبيعة وتماسكها ككل واحد، ولأننا نريد أن تجري الأشياء وفقاً لتفكيرنا وآرائنا، مع أن ما يعتبره عقلنا سيئاً أو شراً ليس شراً أو سيئاً بالنسبة إلى نظام الطبيعة وقوانينها الشاملة الكلية. بل بالنسبة إلى قوانين طبيعتنا الخاصة المنفصلة. أما بالنسبة إلى كلمة الخير والشر فإنها لا تدل على شيء إيجابي في حد ذاتها، لأن الشيء الواحد نفسه قد يكون في وقت واحد خيراً أو شراً، أو لا هذا ولا ذاك كالموسيقى مثلاً فإنها خير بالنسبة إلى المنقبض النفس وشر بالنسبة إلى النائح الحزين الذي فقد شخصاً عزيزاً عليه. وهي ليست خيراً أو شراً بالنسبة إلى الميت

Peace is war by other means.

Most of our literature and social philosophy after 1850 was the voice of freedom against authority, of the child against the parent, of the pupil against the teacher. Through many years I shared in that individualistic revolt. I do not regret it; it is the function of youth to defend liberty and innovation, of the old to defend order and tradition, and of middle age to find a middle way. But now that I too am old, I wonder whether the battle I fought was not too completely won. Let us say humbly but publicly that we resent corruption in politics, dishonesty in business, faithlessness in marriage, pornography in literature, coarseness in language, chaos in music, meaninglessness in art.

Excellence is an art won by training and habituation. We do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have those because we have acted rightly. We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.

"Excellence is an art won by training and habituation: we do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have these because we have acted rightly; "these virtues are formed in man by his doing the actions";[69] we are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit;"

Nevertheless, the movement of intelligence over western and southern Europe was as rapid in Caesar’s day as at any time before the railway. In 54 B.C.. Caesar’s letter from Britain reached Cicero at Rome in twenty-nine days; in 1834 Sir Robert Peel, hurrying from Rome to London, required thirty days.20

Those who have suffered much become very bitter or very gentle.

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Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, stealing, shouting and doing things historians usually record; while on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry and even whittle statues. The story of civilization is the story of what happened on the banks. Historians are pessimists because they ignore the banks of the river.

History is, above all else, the creation and recording of that heritage; progress is its increasing abundance, preservation, transmission, and use. To those of us who study history not merely as a warning reminder of man’s follies and crimes, but also as an encouraging remembrance of generative souls, the past ceases to be a depressing chamber of horrors; it becomes a celestial city, a spacious country of the mind, wherein a thousand saints, statesmen, inventors, scientists, poets, artists, musicians, lovers, and philosophers still live and speak, teach and carve and sing. The historian will not mourn because he can see no meaning in human existence except that which man puts into it; let it be our pride that we ourselves may put meaning into our lives, and sometimes a significance that transcends death. If a man is fortunate he will, before he dies, gather up as much as he can of his civilized heritage and transmit it to his children. And to his final breath he will be grateful for this inexhaustible legacy, knowing that it is our nourishing mother and our lasting life.