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[La Harpe. Cours,] p. 334. “There would be (Diderot used to say) three great pleas to make, one for Seneca and for Burrhus, a second for Nero, a third for Agrippina.” This last remark (Laharpe says very well) explains everything by giving you the measure of the man and of the interest he took in morality and truth. And above: Let me be told whether all that is most sacred among men has ever been more formally put in question and in dispute than in the three great pleas Diderot gravely proposes for the examination of sensible men, the second of which is for Nero!
[La Harpe.] It would have been better to say — thought is an assertion (of the mind), and an idea is a glimpse. Through the one, we take a position, and through the other we have a view. The former depends more on reason, the latter on imagination. There is more will in the one and intelligence in the other.
September 18.
I see only a single thing that can leave some innocence to suicide and some esteem to its author. It is remorse. I mean when remorse is its cause; but a sudden and swift remorse. Jocasta. Œdipus, Ninon’s son; Ajax gone mad.
July […]3.
Creat. — Admit, permit, tolerate, and if necessary even endure.
July 21.
In those times we drew our allusions from the world, and today we are forced to draw them from books. This is a disadvantage.
August 1.
Yes, we have three eyes, we also have three ears (as the Chinese author says). For to the body’s two eyes and two ears, to make a correct count, we must add the soul’s ear, the mind’s invisible eye.
Imagination is an eye in which images always remain.
August 3.
Imperfection that turns into virtue. This is what makes the action of one mind upon another delightful to exercise and to experience.
It is not metaphysics that has ruined us, but its cruelest enemy, hollow paltry reasoning.
Saturday, August 8.
At ten o’clock in the evening. My poor mother! My poor mother!
Sunday, August 9. (Monday, id.)
My poor mother!
Monday, August 10 (in the evening.)
My poor mother! (Id., id., id., id., id.)
August 20.
“To bury your life” is beautiful. (Volt. Irèn.)
Heights that make one uneasy...