Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. Woe to the thinker who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in him.

Which is it? Is man only a blunder of God? Or is God only a blunder of man?

When asses are needed.- You will never get the crowd to cry Hosanna until you ride into town on an ass.

Men after death ... are understood worse than men of the moment, but heard better.

Our drives are reducible to the will to power. The will to power is the ultimate fact at which we arrive.

The consequence is that every man comes to know himself solely in terms of his power for defence and attack.

You want to make him interested in you? Then pretend to be embarrassed in his presence-