But now I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.

All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie.

The fact that a great many people believe something is no guarantee of its truth.

Misconceptions play a prominent role in my view of the world.

History is a blood-drenched enigma and the world an error.

we are suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.

I don't pretend to understand the universe — it's much bigger than I am.

One always has exaggerated ideas about what one doesn't know.

I am beginning to believe that nothing can ever be proved. These are honest hypotheses which take the facts into account: but I sense so definitely that they come from me, and that they are simply a way of unifying my own knowledge. Not a glimmer comes from Rollebon's side. Slow, lazy, sulky, the facts adapt themselves to the rigour of the order I wish to give them; but it remains outside of them. I have the feeling of doing a work of pure imagination.

I look at the world and I see absurdity all around me. People do strange things constantly, to the point that, for the most part, we manage not to see it.

The world is immeasurably complex and the private stock of reason is small.

Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.

I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth. Perhaps the mission of those who love mankind is to make people laugh at the truth, to make truth laugh, because the only truth lies in learning to free ourselves from insane passion for the truth.

I don't believe anything, but I have many suspicions.