Not necessity, not desire – no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything – health, food, a place to live, entertainment – they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.
Not when truth is dirty, but when it is shallow, does the enlightened man dislike to wade into its waters.
Nothing has been purchased more dearly than the little bit of reason and sense of freedom which now constitutes our pride.
Nothing is beautiful, only man: on this piece of naivete rests all aesthetics, it is the first truth of aesthetics. Let us immediately add its second: nothing is ugly but degenerate man – the domain of aesthetic judgment is therewith defined.
Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his own blood.
On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow.
Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it is even becoming mob.
One has to pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive.
One may sometimes tell a lie, but the grimace that accompanies it tells the truth.
One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.
One often contradicts an opinion when what is uncongenial is really the tone in which it was conveyed.
One ought to hold on to one’s heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too.
One should die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly.
Our treasure lies in the beehive of our knowledge. We are perpetually on the way thither, being by nature winged insects and honey gatherers of the mind.
Our vanity is hardest to wound precisely when our pride has just been wounded.
People who have given us their complete confidence believe that they have a right to ours. The inference is false, a gift confers no rights.
Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter.
Plato was a bore.
Regarding life, the wisest men of all ages have judged alike: it is worthless.
Rejoicing in our joy, not suffering over our suffering, makes someone a friend.