In the end we love our desire and not what it is that we desire.

All of life is a dispute over taste and tasting.

We possess art lest we perish of the truth.

Not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us at all.

When on a Sunday morning we hear the old bells ring out, we ask ourselves, "Is it possible! This is done on account of a Jew crucified two thousand years ago who said he was the Son of God. The proof of such an assertion is wanting".

War has always been the grand sagacity of every spirit which has grown too inward and too profound; its curative power lies even in the wounds one receives.

What, then is truth?... Truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are.