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

In the end one only experiences oneself.

Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art.

When we have to change our mind about a person, we hold the inconvenience he causes us very much against him.

All human life is sunk deep in untruth; the individual cannot pull it out of this well without growing profoundly annoyed with his entire past, without finding his present motives (like honor) senseless, and without opposing scorn and disdain to the passions that urge one on to the future and to the happiness in it.

In a seriously intended intellectual emancipation a person's mute passions and cravings also hope to find their advantage.

Poets and writers who are in love with the superlative all want to do more than they can.