A man who whinnies with noisy laughter, surpasses all the animals in vulgarity.

We have no organ at all for knowledge, for truth: we know (or believe or imagine) precisely as much as may be useful in the interest of the human herd, the species: and even what is here called usefulness is in the end only a belief, something imagined and perhaps precisely that most fatal piece of stupidity by which we shall one day perish.

The thought of suicide is a great source of comfort: with it a calm passage is to be made across many a bad night.

Is man one of God's blunders? Or is God one of man's blunders?

Books for all the world are always foul-smelling books: the smell of small people clings to them.

The poet presents his thoughts festively, on the carriage of rhythm: usually because they could not walk.

Mistrust those in whom the urge to punish is strong.