One must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star.
One must pay dearly for immortality: one has to die several times while still alive.
Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becometh populace.
Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his blood. Write with blood, and thou wilt find that blood is spirit.
Now every tradition grows continually more venerable, the farther off lies its origin, the more this is lost sight of; the generation paid it accumulates from generation to generation, the tradition at last becomes holy and excites awe.
Nothing is beautiful, except man: all aesthetics rest on this naivete, it is their first truth. Let us straightway add the second: nothing is ugly, except degenerating man; — the domain of aesthetic judgment is thereby limited.
Nothing has been more dearly bought than the minute portion of human reason and feeling of liberty upon which we now pride ourselves.
Not when the truth is filthy, but when it is shallow, doth the discerning one go unwillingly into its waters.
No small art is it to sleep: it is necessary for that purpose to keep awake all day.
No one is such a liar as the indignant man.
Neither necessity nor desire, but the love of power, is the demon of mankind. You may give men everything possible health, food, shelter, enjoyment but they are and remain unhappy and capricious, for the demon waits and waits; and must be satisfied.
Necessity is not an established fact, but an interpretation.
