All mankind is divided, as it was at all times and is still, into slaves and freemen.

Not infrequently, we encounter copies of important human beings; and here, too, as in the case of paintings, most people prefer the copies to the originals.

Illness is a clumsy attempt to arrive at health: we must come to nature's aid with intellect.

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

Give me today, for once, the worst throw of your dice, destiny. Today I transmute everything into gold.

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

There are slavish souls who carry their appreciation for favors done them so far that they strangle themselves with the rope of gratitude.