The problem was not that they failed to find these principles written upon their hearts, but that they could not bring themselves to attend closely to the inscription.

When, despite considerable intelligence, a thinker cannot think straight, it becomes very likely that he cannot face his thoughts.

It is hard enough to face the moral law even with the revelation that the divine justice and divine mercy are conjoined. It offends our pride to be forgiven, terrifies it to surrender control.

Even the suicide desires his own good: he wrongly imagines that he would be better off dead. The moral problem is not that we love ourselves but that we love ourselves the wrong way.

Trying to understand man without recognizing him as imago Dei is like trying to understand a bas-relief without recognizing it as a carving.

The goods of fidelity, for example, are plain and concrete to the man who has not strayed, but they are faint, like mathematical abstractions, to the one who is addicted to other men's wives.

Or perhaps the syndrome we are witnessing is preemptive capitulation: If we reduce our conscience to rubble before the bad men get here, they will have nothing to destroy.

If he makes humanity God and yet cries out against God's inhumanity, it is clear who has really been accused.

If we aren't trustworthy to our own words and values, why should we expect others to trust us with their resources, let alone with their lives?

Hestia shook her head. "I am here because when all else fails, when all the other mighty gods have gone off to war, I am all that's left. Home. Hearth. I am the last Olympian

I love love, and I love life. I love. I just love. It's just great. It's the most enduring element we have is love.

I'm a great admirer of cartoons, because I can't do cartoons.

It's no surprise that things are so screwed up: everyone that knows how to run a government is either driving taxicabs or cutting hair.

I've reached a point in my life where my Truman Show boat has hit the painting.

I can sleep. I love sleep; it's my favorite.

It looks like I had the most irrelevant education than anybody in the planet could have.

What is a memory? Not a storehouse, not a trunk in the attic, but an instrument that constantly refines the past into a narrative, accessible and acceptable to oneself.

Be a function of your values rather than a function of the impulse or desire of any given moment.