Nothing is more pathological in our pathological modernity than this disease of Christian pity.

The finest and healthiest thing about science is, as in the mountains, the brisk air blowing around in it.--The spiritually delicate (such as artists) shun and slander science owing to this air.

I am alone again and I want to be so; alone with the pure sky and open sea.

We are in the greatest danger of being run over when we have just gotten out of the way of a carriage.

In Russia there is an emigration of intelligence: émigrés cross the frontier in order to read and to write good books. But in doing so they contribute to making their fatherland, abandoned by spirit, into the gaping jaws of Asia that would like to swallow our little Europe.

Our treasure lies in the beehive of our knowledge. We are perpetually on the way thither, being by nature winged insects and honey gatherers of the mind.

Every step forward is made at the cost of mental and physical pain to someone.