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MEPHISTOPHELES: What dreary, stale employment to keep watch on a philosopher! [...] These logicians are distrustful souls. One works like a spider ar… - George Sand
" "MEPHISTOPHELES: What dreary, stale employment to keep watch on a philosopher! [...] These logicians are distrustful souls. One works like a spider around their cold brains to catch them in the web of dialectic, but the result is that they kick and catch the devil in threads of their own making. They use chicanery to resist the master who taught it to them! This one uses demonstrative reason to arrive at faith, and what ruins others saves him from my claws. You are a mystical pedant who gives me more pain than did your ancestor, Faust. [...] Behold, philosophers who want at one and the same time to understand and to feel. If we let them get away with it, man will slip between our fingers quickly enough. Hola, my masters! Believe and be absurd, we agree to that; but don’t complicate it by trying both to believe and to be wise.
English
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About George Sand
Amandine-Aurore-Lucile Dupin, baronne Dudevant (1 July 1804 – 8 June 1876), most famous under her pseudonym George Sand, was a French novelist and a pioneer of feminism.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Alternative Names:
Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin
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Amandine Lucile Aurore Dupin
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Baroness Dudevant
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Jules Sand
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Lucie Dudevant
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Aurore Amantine Lucile Dupin
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Aurore Amantine Lucile Sand
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Amandine-Aaurore-Lucile Dupin
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George nee Dupin Sand
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Mrs. George Sand
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Georges Sand
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Amandine-Aurore-Lucile Dudevant
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Amandine-Aaurore-Lucile Dudevant
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Lucile Aurore Dupin
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A.A.L. Dudevant-Dupin
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Additional quotes by George Sand
"My good aunt Lucie was on the eve of marriage with an officer who was a friend of my father, and they were all celebrating in the intimacy of the family. My mother was wearing a pretty dress the color of roses. They were dancing a quadrille composed by my father, as he played on his faithful Cremona violin. . . . My mother, feeling a slight malaise, left the dance and went to her bedroom. Since she showed no signs of indisposition and had left so quietly, the dancing continued. My aunt Lucie, as it was ending, went to my mother's bedroom, and almost immediately she was heard to cry, "Come, come quickly, Maurice, you have a daughter!"
"She shall be called Aurore," said my father, "after my poor, dear mother, who is not here to bless her, but who will someday!"
And he took me in his arms. . . .
"She was born to the sound of music and in the color of
roses," said my aunt. "She will know happiness.
But, alas, I have such a limited spirit, so feeble a memory, that I can’t make any progress. This long illness has parched my poor head. How painful it is to me to open these big books! The odor of damp parchment makes me faint, and all the letters aligned and printed with discouraging symmetry make me dizzy. [...] Just yesterday I confused “objectivity” with “subjectivity” and last night I dreamed about the definition of the absolute. I dreamed I was in a beautiful meadow and watched the flow of a stream of living water. It seemed to me that there were some words written in the depths of its
transparent bed, and I read there all sorts of beautiful things, as though in a book.
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