History is nothing more than the belief in the senses, the belief in falsehood.

All I need is a sheet of paper and something to write with, and then I can turn the world upside down.

Man is more sensitive to the contempt that others feel towards him than to the contempt that he feels towards himself.

Loneliness is one thing, solitude another.

In those days it was possible for a Greek to flee from an over-abundant reality as though it were but the tricky scheming off the imagination-and to flee, not like Plato into the land of eternal ideas, into the workshop off the world-creator, feasting one's eyes on the unblemished unbreakable archetypes, but into the rigor mortis off the coldest emptiest concept off all, the concept of being.

How lovely it is that there are words and sounds. Are not words and sounds rainbows and illusive bridges between things which are eternally apart?

Amor Fati – “Love Your Fate”, which is in fact your life.