To have to fight the instincts - that is the definition of decadence: as long as life is ascending, happiness equals instinct.

I know of no better life purpose than to perish in attempting the great and the impossible.

But what if pleasure and pain should be so closely connected that he who wants the greatest possible amount of the one must also have the greatest possible amount of the other, that he who wants to experience the "heavenly high jubilation," must also be ready to be "sorrowful unto death"?

I would believe only in a God that knows how to Dance.

What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions — they are metaphors that have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force.

There is an innocence in lying which is the sign of good faith in a cause.

I am really very, very tired of everything - more than tired.