Fanatics are picturesque, mankind would rather see gestures than listen to reasons.

Watch them clamber, these swift monkeys! They clamber over one another and thus drag one another into the mud and the depth. They all want to get to the throne: that is their madness — as if happiness sat on the throne. Often, mud sits on the throne — and often the throne also on mud. Mad they all appear to me, clambering monkeys and overardent. Foul smells their idol, the cold monster: foul, they smell to me altogether, these idolators.

The higher we soar the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly.

Wisdom sets bounds even to knowledge.

Should not the giver be thankful that the receiver received? Is not giving a need? Is not receiving, mercy?

A soul which knows that it is loved, but does not itself love, betrays its sediment: its dregs come up.

No shepherd and one herd! Everybody wants the same, everybody is the same: whoever feels different goes voluntarily into a madhouse.