We have no organ at all for knowledge, for truth: we know (or believe or imagine) precisely as much as may be useful in the interest of the human herd, the species: and even what is here called usefulness is in the end only a belief, something imagined and perhaps precisely that most fatal piece of stupidity by which we shall one day perish.

I hate who steals my solitude, without really offer me in exchange company.

Around the hero everything turns into a tragedy, around the demigod, a satyr-play, and around God--what? perhaps a "world"?

Wherever progress is to ensue, deviating natures are of greatest importance.

The complete irresponsibility of man for his actions and his nature is the bitterest drop which he who understands must swallow.

In compassionate men, severity is a virtue.

Was that life? Well then, once more!