God (n.) defied ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠definition by Simonides: asked by Hiero what God was, he asked for a day to think, then two more, and kept prolonging the term without ever giving one.

God (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠popular religion has barbarity and caprice for his ruling character — barbarity from our terrors, caprice from the methods we use to appease him.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no natural object of any passion: neither sense nor imagination can reach him — we cannot even love a remote ancestor who left us our estates.

God (n.) punishing ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠us for opinions would have one of the lowest human passions, a restless appetite for applause — and yet lack the disregard we feel for the opinions of creatures far beneath us.

Religion (n.) surveyed ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠across nations and ages looks like sick men's dreams — or perhaps the playsome whimsies of monkeys in human shape.

Religion (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a riddle, an enigma, an inexplicable mystery; doubt is all our scrutiny yields — and even doubt survives only by setting the superstitions quarrelling while we slip away into philosophy.

Religion (n.) begins ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not in speculative curiosity or love of truth but in the anxious concern for happiness, the dread of misery, the terror of death, the thirst for revenge and the appetite for food.

Religion (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its popular forms leaves a wise magistrate hoping at most to make a saving game of it.

The World (n.) resembles ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a vegetable or animal more than a watch or a knitting-loom — so its cause more probably resembles generation than design.

The World (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an animal, and God is its soul — actuating it, and actuated by it.

The World (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be, for all one knows, the first rude essay of an infant deity who abandoned it in shame, or the work of a superannuated god's dotage, running on since his death.

The World (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a great theatre where the true springs of every event are hidden from us, and we hang in perpetual suspense between life and death, health and sickness, plenty and want.

Nature (n.) cares ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only that the species be upheld, not that its members be happy: no machinery merely for pleasure, no indulgence without some want accompanying it.

Nature (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a rigid master, not an indulgent parent: she calculates each creature's necessities exactly and grants barely enough powers to meet them, with no reserve against accident.

Nature (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠blind, impregnated by a great vivifying principle, pouring forth from her lap without discernment or parental care her maimed and abortive children.

Nature (n.) uses ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠curious artifices to embitter every life: each animal surrounded before and behind, above and below, by enemies — insects with smaller insects tormenting them in turn.

Skepticism (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠philosophy is, in a man of letters, the first and most essential step towards being a sound, believing Christian.

Skepticism (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠tested at the end of the evening: we shall see whether the sceptic leaves by the door or by the window.

Skepticism (n.) triumphs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not by winning but by a draw: where argument runs wide of common life, the mind hangs in suspense, and that balance is its victory.

Skepticism (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠is total cannot last a few hours: external objects press in, passions solicit, and the philosophical melancholy dissipates.

Order (n.) we ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠see failing in both realms — in thought, as madness; in matter, as corruption — so why think it more essential to mind?

Order (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠bestowed every day without being perceived: a tree on the tree that springs from it, an animal on its offspring, a bird on its nest.

Order (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no proof of design in itself: for all we know a priori, matter may hold the spring of order within it just as mind does.

Order (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be what blind motion settles into: whatever forms keep themselves together amid perpetual flux must look exactly as if they had been contrived.

Superstition (n.) increases ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in proportion as a man's life is governed by accident: gamesters and sailors, least capable of reflection, abound most in it.

Superstition (n.) raises ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠imaginary enemies once man has mastered all his real ones — demons who make his pleasure a crime, his sleep a source of fear, and death itself a dread.

Superstition (n.) leaves ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a detail of miseries wherever history mentions the religious spirit — factions, civil wars, persecutions; no age is happier than one where it is never heard of.

Superstition (n.) prefers ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠whatever practice serves no purpose in life or does the most violence to natural inclination — those very features make it seem more purely religious.

Pleasure (n.) scarcely ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠ever reaches rapture and never stays at its height: the spirits evaporate, the nerves relax, and enjoyment degenerates into fatigue — while pain, the longer it lasts, becomes more genuine torture.

Pleasure (n.) comes, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠for a man in good health and humour, from every common incident: to go to bed, to rise, to eat, to converse, to enjoy the weather, to hear news and to retail it — the stuff of most lives.

Pleasure (n.) shown ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to a stranger — a ball, an opera, a court — might look to him like only a diversity of distress.

Pleasure (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠pain seem scattered through life as indifferently as heat and cold through the universe; if one slightly prevails, that is just what happens in any unplanned mixture.

An Atheist (n.) by ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Plato's third kind is anyone who thinks God can be moved by prayers or sacrifices — so the author of a good sermon on prayer is a rank atheist.

An Atheist (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠sceptic are now almost synonyms — and since no one is in earnest about scepticism, one hopes few are about atheism.

An Atheist (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only nominally so and can never possibly be in earnest; press him and he and the theist will insensibly change sides.

An Atheist (n.) plainly ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠distinguishes good reasoning from bad — so why not vice from virtue?

Reason (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠virtue are not the same nor obviously connected: a sound understanding and a hard heart are very compatible.

Reason (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a power whose effects are known but whose essence is as incomprehensible as generation — neither has any privilege as the standard of nature.

Reason (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠explain why the parts of a stone hold together — so with what assurance can it trace the origin of worlds from eternity to eternity?

Reason (n.) properly ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠analysed is nothing but a species of experience.