The more I read, the more I acquire, the more certain I am that I know nothing.
Indeed, history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes.
History is nothing but a pack of tricks that we play upon the dead.
This agglomeration which was called and which still calls itself the Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.
History never repeats itself. Man always does.
All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
History is only the register of crimes and misfortunes.
The ancient Romans built their greatest masterpieces of architecture, their amphitheaters, for wild beasts to fight in.
History should be written as philosophy.
History is only the pattern of silken slippers descending the stairs to the thunder of hobnailed boots climbing upward from below.
History is the recital of facts represented as true. Fable, on the other hand, is the recital of facts represented as fiction.
He was not the greatest of men but he was the greatest of kings.
A torch lighted in the forests of America set all Europe in conflagration.
What would constitute useful history? That which should teach us our duties and our rights, without appearing to teach them.
History in general is a collection of crimes, follies, and misfortunes among which we have now and then met with a few virtues, and some happy times.
Historians are gossips who tease the dead
History consists of a series of accumulated imaginative inventions.
All the arts are brothers; each one is a light to the others.
History is filled with the sound of silken slippers going downstairs and wooden shoes coming up.
All the ancient histories, as one of our wits say, are just fables that have been agreed upon
History contains little beyond a list of people who have accommodate themselves with other people's property.
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