“I have not the slightest pretension to call my verses poetry; I write now and then for no other purpose than to relieve depression or to improve my English.”

I intend to leave after my death a large fund for the promotion of the peace idea, but I am skeptical as to its results.

Worry is the stomach’s worst poison.

A recluse without books and ink is already in life a dead man.

The savants will write excellent volumes. There will be laureates. But wars will continue just the same until the forces of the circumstances render them impossible.

If I have a thousand ideas and only one turns out to be good, I am satisfied.

Contentment is the only real wealth.

I am a misanthrope yet utterly benevolent.

My dynamite will sooner lead to peace than a thousand world conventions. As soon as men will find that in one instant, whole armies can be utterly destroyed, they surely will abide by golden peace.

The only true solution would be a convention under which all the governments would bind themselves to defend collectively any country that was attacked.

Lying is the greatest of all sins.

Nature is man’s teacher. She unfolds her treasures to his search, unseals his eye, illumes his mind, and purifies his heart; an influence breathes from all the sights and sounds of her existence.

For me writing biographies is impossible, unless they are brief and concise, and these are, I feel, the most eloquent.

One can state, without exaggeration, that the observation of and the search for similarities and differences are the basis of all human knowledge.

It is not sufficient to be worthy of respect in order to be respected.

I am a misanthrope and yet utterly benevolent, have more than one screw loose yet am a super-idealist who digests philosophy more efficiently than food.

It is my express wish that in awarding the [Nobel Prizes] no consideration be given to the nationality of the candidates, but that the most worthy shall receive the prize, whether he be Scandinavian or not.

Anxiety is on the run and depression sleeps in the next room.

Sometimes sadness can consume us to a point where it feels like you’re in a spiraling black hole that is never ending.

The idea of feeling great at all times is purely fictional for a simple reason: we get bored of the same things, same feelings, same environments pretty quickly. If everything was always nice and great, you’d get depressed.

Nothing can harm you as much as your own thoughts unguarded.

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

Are you becoming what you’ve always hated?

Well of course I get depressed sometimes, yes I do.

Nothing can harm you as much as your own thoughts unguarded.