We find nothing easier than being wise, patient, superior. We drip with the oil of forbearance and sympathy, we are absurdly just, we forgive everything. For that very reason we ought to discipline ourselves a little; for that very reason we ought to cultivate a little emotion, a little emotional vice, from time to time. It may be hard for us; and among ourselves we may perhaps laugh at the appearance we thus present. But what of that! We no longer have any other mode of self-overcoming available to us: this is our asceticism, our penance.

The object of convalescence ought to be to turn our attention to life: at other times, simply to our tasks!

If married couples did not live together, happy marriages would be more frequent.

Everything matters. Nothing's important.

Those are my enemies: they want to overthrow and to construct nothing themselves. They say: "All that is worthless"--and want to create no value themselves.

We can destroy only as creators

How much truth does a spirit endure, how much truth does it dare?