God is a gross answer, an indelicacy against us thinkers- at bottom merely a gross prohibition for us: you shall not think!

as though "the Truth" were such an innocent and incompetent creature as to require protectors!

Love of one is a piece of barbarism: for it is practised at the expense of all others. Love of God likewise.

What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto you, and so also your reason and virtue.

In this state one enriches everything out of one's own fullness: whatever one sees, whatever wills is seen swelled, taut, strong, overloaded with strength. A man in this state transforms things until they mirror his power—until they are reflections of his perfection. This having to transform into perfection is—art.

The living is merely a type of what is dead, and a very rare type.

Let old ones go. Dont be a memory-monger! Once you were young──now you are even younger.