It is neither the best nor the worst things in a book that defy translation.

My humanity is a constant self-overcoming.

A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.

Just as bones, tissues, intestines, and blood vessels are enclosed in a skin that makes it possible to bear the sight of a human being, so the agitations and passions of the soul are wrapped up in vanity: it is the soul's skin.

Science rushes headlong, without selectivity, without "taste," at whatever is knowable, in the blind desire to know all at any cost.

Ye are ugly? Well then, my brethren, take the sublime about you, the mantle of the ugly!

A little poison now and then: that makes for pleasant dreams. And a lot of poison at the end, for a pleasant death.