The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she perpetrates a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, glancing around to see whether anybody notices--and to make sure that somebody notices.

If you go to see the woman, do not forget the whip.

Free from what? What does that matter to Zarathustra! Clearly, however, shall your eye show to me: free for what?

Yet where is your inner value when you no longer know what it is to breathe freely; when you no longer have freedom over your own selves

Immature is the love of the youth, and immature his hatred of man and earth. His mind and the wings of his spirit are still tied down and heavy.

Only with the ultimate knowledge of all things will man have come to know himself. For things are but the boundaries of man.

In Christianity neither morality nor religion come into contact with reality at any point.