Silence is worse; all truths that are kept silent become poisonous.
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He who cannot find the way to HIS ideal, lives more frivolously and shamelessly than the man without an ideal.
We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to my taste than their falsehoods and false dice.
I am a disciple of the philosopher Dionysus, and I would prefer to be even a satyr than a saint.
Those moralists, on the other hand, who, following in the footsteps of Socrates, offer the individual a morality of self-control and temperance as a means to his own advantage, as his personal key to happiness, are the exceptions.
This book belongs to the most rare of men. Perhaps not one of them is yet alive. First the day after tomorrow must come for me. Some men are born posthumously.
Our crime against criminals lies in the fact that we treat them like rascals.
How COULD they endure my happiness, if I did not put around it accidents, and winter-privations, and bear-skin caps, and enmantling snowflakes!
One day, when in the opinion of the world one has long been educated, one discovers oneself: that is where the task of the thinker begins; now the time has come to invoke his aid–not as an educator but as one who has educated himself and thus has experience.
I want to speak to the despisers of the body. I would not have them learn and teach differently, but merely say farewell to their own bodies-- and thus become silent.
Precisely the least, the softest, lightest, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a flash, a moment – a little makes the way of the best happiness.