Everything Is Self-evident.

In God There Is An Infinitude Of Things Which I Cannot Comprehend, Nor Possibly Even Reach In Any Way By Thought; For It Is The Nature Of The Infinite That My Nature, Which Is Finite And Limited, Should Not Comprehend It.

The Reading Of All Good Books Is Indeed Like A Conversation With The Noblest Men Of Past Centuries Who Were The Authors Of Them, Nay A Carefully Studied Conversation, In Which They Reveal To Us None But The Best Of Their Thoughts.

Even If I Were To Suppose That I Was Dreaming And Whatever I Saw Or Imagined Was False, Yet I Could Not Deny That Ideas Were Truly In My Mind.

Omnia Apud Me Mathematica Fiunt.

I Suppose Therefore That All Things I See Are Illusions; I Believe That Nothing Has Ever Existed Of Everything My Lying Memory Tells Me. I Think I Have No Senses. I Believe That Body, Shape, Extension, Motion, Location Are Functions. What Is There Then That Can Be Taken As True? Perhaps Only This One Thing, That Nothing At All Is Certain.