Inconsistency is my very essence; it is the game I never cease to play as I turn my wheel in its ever changing circle, filled with joy as I bring the top to the bottom and the bottom to the top.
BOETHIUSInconsistency is my very essence; it is the game I never cease to play as I turn my wheel in its ever changing circle, filled with joy as I bring the top to the bottom and the bottom to the top.
BOETHIUSNothing is miserable unless you think it so; and on the other hand, nothing brings happiness unless you are content with it.
BOETHIUSA person is an individual substance of a rational nature.
BOETHIUSIn other living creatures the ignorance of themselves is nature, but in men it is a vice.
BOETHIUSIf there is a God, whence proceed so many evils? If there is no God, whence cometh any good?
BOETHIUSMusic is part of us, and either ennobles or degrades our behavior.
BOETHIUSThe science of numbers ought to be preferred as an acquisition before all others, because of its necessity and because of the great secrets and other mysteries which there are in the properties of numbers. All sciences partake of it, and it has need of none.
BOETHIUSNothing is miserable but what is thought so, and contrariwise, every estate is happy if he that bears it be content.
BOETHIUSHe who has calmly reconciled his life to fate … can look fortune in the face.
BOETHIUSHe who is virtuous is wise; and he who is wise is good; and he who is good is happy.
BOETHIUSAs far as possible, join faith to reason.
BOETHIUSMusic is so naturally united with us that we cannot be free from it – even if we so desired.
BOETHIUSGive me Thy light, and fix my eyes on Thee!
BOETHIUSGood men seek it by the natural means of the virtues; evil men, however, try to achieve the same goal by a variety of concupiscences, and that is surely an unnatural way of seeking the good. Don’t you agree?
BOETHIUSIf there is anything good about nobility it is that it enforces the necessity of avoiding degeneracy.
BOETHIUSWhose souls, albeit in a cloudy memory, yet seek back their good, but, like drunk men, know not the road home.
BOETHIUS