God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?

Instinct. When the house burns one forgets even lunch. Yes, but one eats it later in the ashes.

The same passions in man and woman nonetheless differ in tempo; hence man and woman do not cease misunderstanding one another.

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

It is not in our hands to prevent our birth; but we can correct this mistake - for in some cases it is a mistake.

A reader is doubly guilty of bad manners against an author when he praises his second book at the expense of his first (or vice versa) and then expects the author to be grateful for what he has done.

The empty, the one, the unmoved, the full, satiation, wanting nothing--that would be my evil: in short, dreamless sleep.