The world is beautiful, but has a disease called man.

Of all that is written, I love only what a person hath written with his blood.

You say it is the good cause that hallows even war? I say unto you: it is the good war that hallows any cause.

Narrow souls I cannot abide; There's almost no good or evil inside

Out of love, women become entirely what it is that they are in the imaginations of the men who love them.

What if God were not exactly truth, and if this could be proved? And if he were instead the vanity, the desire for power, the ambitions, the fear, and the enraptured and terrified folly of mankind?

truths are illusions of which one has forgotten that they are illusions, metaphors that have become worn-out and deprived of their sensuous force, coins that have lost their imprint and are now no longer seen as coins but as metal.