Good prose is written only face to face with poetry.

Nothing can be done about it: every master has but a single pupil--and he will not stay loyal to him--for he is also destined to become a master.

What a person is begins to betray itself when his talent weakens--when he stops showing what he can do. Talent, too, is ornamentation, and ornamentation, too, is a hiding place.

For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.

If you look long enough into the void, the void begins to look back through you.

Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 153

When thou goest to woman, take thy whip.