Every week we ought to have one hour for recieving letters, then go take a bath.

One may sometimes tell a lie, but the grimace that accompanies it tells the truth.

...throw roses into the abyss and say: 'here is my thanks to the monster who didn't succeed in swallowing me alive.

When one has a great deal to put into it a day has a hundred pockets.

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.

On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow.

Truth is the kind of error without which a certain species of life could not live. The value for life is ultimately decisive.