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.

We are, indeed, not among the least contented. You, however, if your belief makes you blessed then appear to be blessed! Your faces have always been more injurious to your belief than our objections have! If these glad tidings of your Bible were written on your faces, you would not need to insist so obstinately on the authority of that book ... As things are, however, all your apologies for Christianity have their roots in your lack of Christianity; with your defense plea you inscribe your own bill of indictment.

Memory says, 'I did that.' Pride replies, 'I could not have done that.' Eventually, memory yields.

We praise or blame as one or the other affords more opportunity for exhibiting our power of judgement.

Evolution does not make happiness its goal; it aims simply at evolution and nothing else.

Regarding life, the wisest men of all ages have judged alike: it is worthless.

One has to take a somewhat bold and dangerous line with this existence: especially as, whatever happens, we are bound to lose it.