It is always consoling to think of suicide: in that way one gets through many a bad night.

The great end of art is to strike the imagination with the power of a soul that refuses to admit defeat even in the midst of a collapsing world.

Democratic institutions form a system of quarantine for tyrannical desires.

With sturdy shoulders, space stands opposing all its weight to nothingness. Where space is, there is being.

This woman is beautiful and clever: but how much cleverer she would have become if she were not beautiful!

What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions — they are metaphors that have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force.

I change too quickly: my today refutes my yesterday. When I ascend I often jump over steps, and no step forgives me that.