Pride (n.) at its noblest took root among the ruins of his uprooted vanity.
Pride (n.) pushes toward isolation; only vanity drives the wish to be known and well judged, and Rousseau was not vain.
Pride (n.) in its illusions is the source of our greatest ills, while the wise man, desiring less than we, is in reality richer and more powerful.
Pride (n.) can keep a starving man silent: treated as an equal, he could not bear to descend from companion to miserable beggar.
Pride (n.) may do as much of virtue's work as virtue itself; its effects are so alike that we are forgiven for mistaking one for the other.
Pride (n.) in Sophy is really humility: she assumes control over Emile because she doubts her control of herself, and is proud only in order to preserve her virtue.
Pride (n.) can hide in a brave confession: owning a flop in the café, he admits there was more pride in speaking than there would have been false shame in silence.
Pride (n.) first stirred when man looked into himself and saw his superiority over the animals: ranking his species highest, he prepared the way to rank himself highest.
Pride (n.) can take its revenge in garlands: having refused a king's twelve louis, Rousseau spent almost as much illuminating his house to celebrate the king's peace.
Pride (n.) can cure terror in a moment: the boy who twice fled the dark church flew straight to the pulpit once he heard his cousin would get the credit for fetching the Bible.
Pride (n.) is selfishness in great minds; vanity is selfishness in little ones — and both feed continually at our neighbour's cost.
Pride (n.) is crediting your own reason with the work of another's, and your deserts with your good fortune: "I am wise and other men are fools" — illusions of pride may be worse than those of prejudice.