And like a wind shall I one day blow amongst them and with my spirit take away their soul's breath: thus my future wills it.

Precisely the least, the softest, lightest, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a flash, a moment - a little makes the way of the best happiness.

It is thus only this personal feeling of misery that we get rid of by acts of pity.

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.

A thing can only live through a pious illusion.

Life, and you, and I, and all of us together became for a while interesing to ourselves once more.

Every past is worth condemning.