Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 153

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?

There is no more dangerous error than that of mistaking the consequence for the cause.

[Heraclitus speaks as if] in entrancement ... but [also] truthfully.

We operate with nothing but things which do not exist, with lines, planes, bodies, atoms, divisible time, divisible space - how should explanation even be possible when we first make everything into an image, into our own image!

no one talks more passionately about his rights than he who in the depths of his soul doubts whether he has any

A soul which knows that it is loved, but does not itself love, betrays its sediment: its dregs come up.