Gradually it has become clear to me what every great philosophy so far has been: namely, the personal confession of its author and a kind of involuntary and unconscious memoir.

A heart full of courage and cheerfulness needs a little danger from time to time, or the world gets unbearable.

One must learn to be a sponge if one wants to be loved by hearts that overflow.

Without the errors which lie in the assumption of morality, man would have remained an animal.

From passions grow opinions; intellectual laziness lets these harden into convictions.

That is an artist as I would have an artist be, modest in his needs: he really wants only two things, his bread and his art--panemet Circen.

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.