The Moral law (n.) gets ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠degraded into a rule of well-understood advantage for one reason: we want to be rid of the intimidating respect that holds our unworthiness so sternly before us.

The Moral law (n.) within ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠me is one of two things that fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and reverence, the other being the starry sky above me.

The Moral law (n.) gains ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠weight not by adding anything but by taking away: it strips self-love of its influence and self-conceit of its delusion, and the counterweight's removal is the law's weight.

The Moral law (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠apodeictically certain even if no example could be hunted up in experience where it is complied with exactly.

Freedom (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the reason the moral law exists; the moral law is the reason we know freedom exists — each is the other's ground in a different order.

Freedom (n.) would ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠survive even perfect prediction: if we knew every incentive and outside prompting, we could calculate a person's future conduct as surely as a lunar eclipse and still assert that he is free.

Freedom (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠known through the ought: a man who calls his lust irresistible would conquer it with a gallows outside the house, and asked whether under threat of death he could refuse false testimony against an honest man, he must concede he could — he judges that he can do something because he is conscious that he ought to.

Freedom (n.) itself ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠becomes, indirectly, capable of an enjoyment: the consciousness of mastery over one's inclinations — not happiness, not quite bliss, but a likeness of the self-sufficiency only God has.

Happiness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not an original possession but a problem thrust upon a finite being by its own neediness.

Happiness (n.) withheld ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠from someone who needs it and deserves it is something no perfectly willing, all-powerful rational being could allow — even impartial reason demands it.

Happiness (n.) made ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the supreme principle of morality rewrites the great commandment as: Love yourself above all, but love God and your neighbor for your own sake.

Happiness (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be made a universal law, though everyone desires it: universalized, it produces not accord but the gravest conflict — 'O marvelous harmony, what he wants she also wants.'

Virtue (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the most a human being can reach, and it is the consciousness of a continual propensity to transgress or at least to impure motives — hence self-esteem combined with humility.

Virtue (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the moral attitude in the struggle, not holiness in the supposed possession of a complete purity of will.

Virtue (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠worth so much only because it costs so much, not because it pays: the upright man who refuses to join the slanderers of an innocent, though friends desert him and his own starving family begs him to yield, lifts the listener from approval to admiration to veneration.

Virtue (n.) would ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠cease to exist if morality ever passed over into holiness: once the law stopped being a command, there would be nothing left to struggle with.

Respect (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠so far from pleasure that we look for a blemish in the person who commands it, anything to ease the humiliation; not even the dead are safe from this search.

Respect (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the law is not an incentive to morality; it is morality itself, seen from the subject's side, acting as an incentive.

Respect (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠what makes my spirit bow before a lowly, plain common man whose righteousness exceeds mine, whether I want it to or not and however high I hold my head.

Respect (n.) applies ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only to persons, never to things: a horse may win our love and a volcano our fear, but nothing that is a thing can win our respect.

Duty (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a sublime, grand name that flatters nothing and threatens nothing, but simply puts forth a law before which all inclinations fall silent even while they secretly work against it.

Duty (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠what the law is called for a will that carries a wish against it: the action requires an inner but intellectual constraint.

Duty (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠action with every inclination excluded, and so it carries necessitation in its very concept: being determined to act however reluctantly it is done.

Duty (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its holiness asks us to put everything second to it, knowing we can because our own reason commands it, and so to raise ourselves entirely above the world of sense; any flattering thought of merit already mixes in self-love.

Reason (n.) would ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not raise man's worth above animality at all if it served only to do what instinct does for animals — it would be just nature's peculiar way of equipping him for the same purpose.

Reason (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a voice so distinct and so impossible to shout down that only the schools' bewildering speculations dare turn a deaf ear to it — to keep a theory that spares them from racking their brains.

Reason (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not found on its own by frequent exercise, unlike the use of the feet; it needs a method carefully thought out beforehand.

Reason (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠determines the will by itself is so distinct in kind from inclination that the slightest admixture of impulse impairs it, as the slightest empirical step degrades a mathematical proof.

God (n.) invoked ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to explain the arrangements of nature is no physical explanation but a confession that one has come to the end of one's philosophy.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a concept that belongs originally not to physics but to morality: only the moral law demands a being omniscient enough to see my innermost attitudes and omnipotent enough to give my conduct its fitting consequences.

God (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be postulated because the moral agent is part of the world but not its cause: nothing in the moral law can make nature pay out happiness in proportion to virtue, so a cause of nature distinct from nature is required.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the infinite one to whom time is nothing: he sees in our endless series of moral progress the whole of adequacy to the law, grasped in a single intellectual intuition.

Inclination (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠all objects commensurable: the same man returns an instructive book to go hunting, leaves a beautiful speech for a meal, turns away a pauper to afford the theater.

Inclination (n.) vary, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠grow with every indulgence, and always leave behind a greater void than the one we meant to fill; so to a rational being they are a burden he wishes to be rid of.

Inclination (n.) put ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in the form of a universal law does not legislate but erases itself.

Inclination (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠blind and servile, good-natured or not; reason must not play its guardian but attend by itself to its own interest.

Morality (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its pure form was settled long ago in common human reason, not by formulas but by habitual use, like the difference between right and left hand; only philosophers can make it doubtful.

Morality (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the doctrine of how we are to make ourselves happy but of how we are to become worthy of happiness.

Morality (n.) policed ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠by a supposed natural or divine law would be machinery to reward and punish, caring only what one does and never why.

Morality (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in everyone's control at any time, because only the maxim counts; happiness is rarely in anyone's control, because it also needs powers and luck.