He is a free and secure citizen of the world because he is on a chain that is long enough to allow him access to all parts of the earth, and yet not so long that he could be swept over the edge of it.

Art is for the artist is only suffering through which he releases himself for further suffering.

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects.

When one has once accepted and absorbed Evil, it no longer demands to be believed.

Some books seem like a key to unfamiliar rooms in one’s own castle.

In a certain sense you deny the existence of this world. You explain life as a state of rest, a state of rest in motion.

The observer of the soul cannot penetrate into the soul, but there doubtless is a margin where he comes into contact with it. Recognition of this contact is the fact that even the soul does not know of itself. Hence it must remain unknown. That would be sad only if there were anything apart from the soul, but there is nothing else.