Truth (n.) is an homage that the good man pays to his own dignity.
Truth (n.) sought in books is nothing but lies and error, as Rousseau found when he looked for it there.
A Truth (n.) told by someone who belongs to no community carries its own guarantee of universality.
Truth (n.) lies at the bottom of a well — but are we made to live and die on its brink?
Truth (n.) stays beyond reach after all I can do to attain it, and it is for Truth to draw near to me.
Truth (n.) can never do a man harm, on their own saying, and that agreement is strong evidence that what they teach is not true.
Truth (n.) is loved and sought and not found: why does she hide her face from the eager heart that would worship her?
Truth (n.) like a cure is assumed to be found by whoever seeks it, forgetting that against each truth discovered we must set the errors that creep in with it.
Truth (n.) is no road to fortune: the people dispenses neither ambassadorships, nor professorships, nor pensions.
Truth (n.) leaves with the one friend willing to tell it: once he was gone, among all her pretended friends, no one would tell it to her again.
Truth (n.) is as plentiful as falsehood, since the contrary of every false proposition is a truth — so we must choose not only when to teach but what.
Truth (n.) has only one way of being, while falsehood has infinite combinations — so we must pass through errors more perilous than truth is useful to reach it.
Truth (n.) is a voice few kings are worthy to hear: Frederick took Rousseau's frank letter urging him to disarm for a scolding, and his zeal for the rusticity of a pedant.