I cry from morning till night for rest, rest; and scarcely a day passes when I am not tempted to go and live in obscurity and die in peace in the depths of my old country.

There comes a time when all ashes are mingled.

Then what will it boot me to have been Voltaire or Diderot, or whether it is your three syllables or my three syllables that survive?
One must work, one must be useful, one owes an account of one's gifts, etcetera, etcetera.

Be useful to men! Is it quite clear that one does more than amuse them, and that there is much difference between the philosopher and the flute-player?
They listen to one or the other with pleasure or disdain, and remain what they were.
The Athenians were never wickeder than in the time of Socrates, and perhaps all that they owe to his existence is a crime the more.

That there is more spleen than good sense in all this, I admit--and back I go to the Encyclopaedia."[150] Thus for seven years the labour of conducting the vast enterprise fell upon Diderot alone.