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.) does harm even without opposing morality, by raising a new and frivolous species of merit and preposterously distributing praise and blame.
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.) 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.
Superstition (n.) makes a fowl lawful on Thursday abominable on Friday, and eggs permitted in this diocese a damnable sin a hundred paces farther.
Superstition (n.) never convinces anyone thoroughly, however arrogant and dogmatic: the Church may let a priest's secret intention void a sacrament, but nobody lets it void a business contract.
Superstition (n.) will not fall for many hundred years, says Charon — so get into the boat, you lazy loitering rogue.
Superstition (n.) in poetry is religion intruding into every sentiment — Petrarch comparing Laura to Jesus Christ, Boccaccio thanking God and the ladies for defending him.
Superstition (n.) is the one vice philosophy can cure completely: love and ambition are rooted in temper, but superstition rests on false opinion and must vanish before true.
Superstition (n.) enslaves even men of the strongest capacity for business, and no gaiety or sweetness of temper is a balm for that poison.
Superstition (n.) chains us to a hated life that it has itself chiefly made miserable.