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.

A miracle entails a degree of irrationality—not because it shocks reason, but because it makes no appeal to it.

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

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.

The most beautiful emotion we can experience is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of all true art and science.

Appearances often are deceiving.

In the society of men, the truth resides now less in what things are than in what they are not. Our social realities are so ugly if seen in the light of exiled truth, and beauty is almost no longer possible if it is not a lie.

God is alive. Magic is afoot.

The subconscious is ceaselessly murmuring, and it is by listening to these murmurs that one hears the truth.

Once something becomes discernible, or understandable, we no longer need to repeat it. We can destroy it.

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.

The fact is certain because it is impossible.