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That day, I began to be incredulous. Or, rather, I regretted having been credulous. I regretted having allowed myself to be borne away by a passion of the mind. Such is credulity.

Umberto Eco

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Umberto Eco
Age: 84 †
Born: 1932
Born: January 5
Died: 2016
Died: February 19
Essayist
Historian
Literary Critic
Literary Scholar
Medievalist
Novelist
Pedagogue
Philosopher
Screenwriter
Semiotician
Translator
Lissändria
Umberto Ecco
Umberto Eccounstino
Humberto Eco
Dedalus
Umberto Eko
Oumperto Eko
Eco Umberto
U. Eco
Borne
Allowed
Began
Passion
Rather
Incredulous
Away
Credulous
Mind
Regretted
Credulity

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There are four types: the cretin, the imbecile, the stupid and the mad. Normality is a balanced mixture of all four.
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How beautiful was the spectacle of nature not yet touched by the often perverse wisdom of man!
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Memory is a stopgap for humans, for whom time flies and what is passed is passed.
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Even today, I frequently meet scientists who, outside their own narrow discipline, are superstitious.
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I have always been fascinated by paranoid people imagining conspiracies. I am fascinated by this in a critical way.
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But laughter is weakness, corruption, the foolishness of our flesh.
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We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.
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libraries are fascinating places: sometimes you feel you are under the canopy of a railway station, and when you read books about exotic places there's a feeling of travelling to distant lands
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People are tired of simple things. They want to be challenged.
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In other words, although I don't like them, we do need noble-spirited souls.
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A dream is a scripture, and many scriptures are nothing but dreams.
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History is a blood-drenched enigma and the world an error.
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There is a constant in the average American imagination and taste, for which the past must be preserved and celebrated in full-scale authentic copy a philosophy of immortality as duplication. It dominates the relation with the self, with the past, not infrequently with the present, always with History and, even, with the European tradition.
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The problem with the Internet is that it gives you everything - reliable material and crazy material. So the problem becomes, how do you discriminate?
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Simple mechanisms do not love.
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The pleasures of love are pains that become desirable, where sweetness and torment blend, and so love is voluntary insanity, infernal paradise, and celestial hell - in short, harmony of opposite yearnings, sorrowful laughter, soft diamond.
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I seem to know all the cliches, but not how to put them together in a believable way. Or else these stories are terrible and grandiose precisely because all the cliches intertwine in an unrealistic way and you can't disentangle them. But when you actually live a cliche, it feels brand new, and you are unashamed.
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Socrates ... did not write. It seems academically obvious that he perished because he did not publish!
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