All the world knows me in my book, and my book in me.
Michel De MontaigneRead
Every one rushes elsewhere and into the future, because no one wants to face one's own inner self.
Interpretation
People often avoid self-reflection and instead focus on external pursuits, fearing their own inner thoughts and feelings.
This quote by Michel De Montaigne highlights the tendency of individuals to escape from introspection and the difficult process of facing their inner selves. It suggests that in a world that constantly rushes towards the future, many choose to distract themselves with external goals instead of engaging in the challenging but necessary journey of understanding who they truly are and what they feel.
In practice
During a motivational speech about personal growth.
All the world knows me in my book, and my book in me.
All I say is by way of discourse, and nothing by way of advice. I should not speak so boldly if it were my due to be believed.
Pythagoras used to say that life resembles the Olympic Games: a few people strain their muscles to carry off a prize; others bring trinkets to sell to the crowd for gain; and some there are, and not the worst, who seek no other profit than to look at the show and see how and why everything is done; spectators of the life of other people in order to judge and regulate their own.
There is not much less vexation in the government of a private family than in the managing of an entire state.
Those who have compared our life to a dream were right... we were sleeping wake, and waking sleep.
Such as are in immediate fear of a losing their estates, of banishment, or of slavery, live in perpetual anguish, and lose all appetite and repose; whereas such as are actually poor, slaves, or exiles, ofttimes live as merrily as other folk.
Loss of social standing is an ever-present threat for individuals whose social acceptance is based on behavioral traits rather than unconditional human value.
It is not man who is the enemy of the human species. It is the irrational; it is the spiritual when it is divorced from the material; from the lesson in one beating heart or one bleeding vein.
Posterity will pay everyone their due.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
In the great books of India, an empire spoke to us, nothing small or unworthy, but large, serene, consistent, the voice of an old intelligence, which in another age and climate had pondered and thus disposed of the questions that exercise us.
My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.
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