For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.
A sedentary life is the real sin against the Holy Spirit. Only those thoughts that come by walking have any value.
At a certain place in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, for example, he might feel that he is floating above the earth in a starry dome, with the dream of immortality in his heart; all the stars seem to glimmer around him, and the earth seems to sink ever deeper downwards.
This book belongs to the most rare of men. Perhaps not one of them is yet alive. It is possible that they may be among those who understand my Zarathustra: how could I confound myself with those who are now sprouting ears?—First the day after tomorrow must come for me. Some men are born posthumously.
I am the leading strings of the ego and the prompter of its concepts.
To love those who despise us, and to give one's hand to the phantom who tries to frighten us?