We possess art lest we perish of the truth.

It is the powerful who know how to honour, it is their art, their domain for invention.

Without the perpetual counterfeiting of the universe by number, man could not continue to live

There's no defense against stupidity.

His (the theologian) basic instinct of self preservation forbids him to respect reality at any point or even to let it get a word in.

We grow hostile to many an artist or writer, not because we finally come to see he has deceived us, but because he thought no subtler means were required to ensnare us.

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?