He who despises himself esteems himself as a self-despiser.

You lack the courage to be consumed in flames and to become ashes: so you will never become new, and never young again!

God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?

Assuming that he believes at all, the everyday Christian is a pitiful figure, a man who really cannot count up to three, and who besides, precisely because of his mental incompetence, would not deserve such a punishment as Christianity promises him.

Speaking of Georges Bizet: His music has the tang of sunny climates, their bracing air, their clearness. It voices a sensibility hitherto unknown to us.

Even truthfulness is but one means to knowledge, a ladder--but not the ladder.

The golden fleece of self-sufficiency guards against cudgel- blows but not against pin-pricks.