But every soil becomes finally exhausted, and the ploughshare of evil must always come once more.

The great poet draws his creations only from out of his own reality.

The Refinement of Shame. People are not ashamed to think something foul, but they are ashamed when they think these foul thoughts are attributed to them.

Shared joys make a friend, not shared sufferings.

Perhaps no one as yet has been truthful enough about what "truthfulness" is.

We find nothing easier than being wise, patient, superior. We drip with the oil of forbearance and sympathy, we are absurdly just, we forgive everything. For that very reason we ought to discipline ourselves a little; for that very reason we ought to cultivate a little emotion, a little emotional vice, from time to time. It may be hard for us; and among ourselves we may perhaps laugh at the appearance we thus present. But what of that! We no longer have any other mode of self-overcoming available to us: this is our asceticism, our penance.

Systems of morals are only a sign-language of the emotions.