Take a book, the poorest one written, but read it with the passion that it is the only book you will read – ultimately you will read everything out of it, that is, as much as there was in yourself, and you could never get more out of reading, even if you read the best of books.

[T]the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. He cannot rightfully be compelled to do or forbear because it will be better for him to do so, because it will make him happier, because, in the opinions of others, to do so would be wise, or even right. These are good reasons for remonstrating with him, or reasoning with him, or persuading him, or entreating him, but not for compelling him, or visiting him with any evil in case he do otherwise.

[T]he privilege of absurdity; to which no living creature is subject, but man only. And of men, those are of all most subject to it that profess philosophy. […] For there is not one of them that begins his ratiocination from the definitions or explications of the names they are to use, which is a method that hath been used only in geometry, whose conclusions have thereby been made indisputable.

The upshot of technical advances as far as everyday life is concerned has been that there is a trustworthy supply of necessaries, but in a way which makes us take less pleasure in them, because they come to us as a matter of course instead of with the relish given by a sense of positive fulfilment. Being more materials obtainable at a moment’s notice in exchange for money, they lack the aroma of that which is produced by personal effort. Articles of consumption are supplied in mass and are used up, their refuse being thrown away; they are readily interchange- able, one specimen being as good as another. In manufactured articles turned out in large quantities, no attempt is made to achieve a unique and precious quality, to produce something whose individuality makes it transcend fashion, something that will be carefully cherished. An article which thus satisfies ordinary needs arouses no peculiar sense of affection.

[N]either gods, men, nor booksellers can doubt the necessity of a middleman between Mr. Bentham and the public. Mr. Bentham is long; Mr. Bentham is occassionally involved and obscure; Mr. Bentham invents new and alarming expressions; Mr. Bentham loves division and subdivision – and he loves method itself, more than its consequences. Those only, therefore, who know his originality, his knowledge, his vigor, and his boldness, will recur to the works themselves. The great mass of readers will not purchase improvement at so dear a rate; but will choose rather to become acquainted with Mr. Bentham through the medium of reviews – after that eminent philosopher has been washed, trimmed, shaved, and forced into clean linen.

What sort of freak then is man! How novel, how monstrous, how chaotic, how paradoxical, how prodigious! Judge of all things, feeble earthworm, repository of truth, sink of doubt and error, glory and refuse of the universe!

Who will unravel such a tangle? This is certainly beyond dogmatism and scepticism, beyond all human philosophy. Man transcends man. Let us then concede to the sceptics what they have so often proclaimed, that truth lies beyond our scope and in an unabtainable quarry, that it is no earthly denizen,but at home in heaven, lying in the lap of God. […]

You cannot be a sceptic […] without stifling nature, you cannot be a dogmatist without turning your back to reason […].

Know then, proud man, what a paradox you are to yourself. Be humble, impotent reason! Be silent, feeble nature! Learn that man infinitely transcends man, hear from your master your true condition, which is unknown to you.

Listen to God.

Modernity is often said to be preoccupied by a sense of crisis, viewing as imminent, perhaps even longing for, some conclusive catastrophe. This sense of crisis has not disappeared, but in the late twentieth century it exists together with another sense, that the conclusive catastrophe has already occurred, the crisis is over (perhaps we were not even aware of exactly when it transpired), and the ceaseless activity of our time – the news with its procession of almost indistinguishable disasters – is only a complex form of stasis.

You ask a philosopher a question and after he or she has talked for a bit you don’t understand your question any more.