Under peaceful conditions, the warlike man attacks himself.
An incalculable number of higher individuals now perish: but he who escapes their fate is as strong as the devil.
They muddy the water, to make it seem deep.
I am not a man, I am dynamite.
In solitude the solitary man consumes himself, in the crowd the crowd consumes him.
Men of profound sadness betray themselves when they are happy: they have a mode of seizing upon happiness as though they would choke and strangle it, out of jealousy--ah, they know only too well that it will flee from them!