We cannot even reproduce our thoughts entirely in words.

Remorse.-- Never yield to remorse, but at once tell yourself: remorse would simply mean adding to the first act of stupidity a second.

I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, and who then asketh: "Am I a dishonest player?" - for he is willing to succumb.

We are, all of us, growing volcanoes that approach the hour of their eruption, but how near or distant that is, nobody knows- not even God.

Life is the will to power; our natural desire to dominate and reshape the world to fit our own preferences and assert our personal strength to the fullest degree.

Your only problem, perhaps, is that you scream without letting yourself cry.

A refined soul is distressed to know that someone owes it thanks; a crude soul, to know that it owes someone thanks.