I know not what the spirit of a philosopher would like better than to be a good dancer. For the dance is his ideal, and also his art, in the end likewise his sole piety, his “divine service.”
How far is truth susceptible of embodiment? — that is the question, that is the experiment.
God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him! How shall we console ourselves, the most murderous of all murderers? The holiest and the mightiest that the world has hitherto possessed, has bled to death under our knife, — who will wipe the blood from us? With what water could we cleanse ourselves?
God is dead: but as the human race is constituted, there will perhaps be caves for millenniums yet, in which people will show his shadow.
For in fact, nothing is more democratic than logic: it is knows no respect of persons, and takes even the crooked nose as straight.
Either one does not dream at all, or one dreams in an interesting manner. One must learn to be awake in the same fashion: — either not at all, or in an interesting manner.
But what after all are man’s truths? They are his irrefutable errors.
Before the effect one believes in other causes than after the effect.
Although the most intelligent judges of the witches, and even the witches themselves, were convinced of the guilt of witchcraft, the guilt, nevertheless, was not there. So it is with all guilt.