All Of Life Is A Dispute Over

How Poisonous, How Crafty, How Bad, Does Every Long War Make One, Which Cannot Be Waged Openly By Means Of Force!

What Then Is Truth? A Movable Host Of Metaphors, Metonymies, And Anthropomorphisms: In Short, A Sum Of Human Relations Which Have Been Poetically And Rhetorically Intensified, Transferred, And Embellished, And Which, After Long Usage, Seem To A People To Be Fixed, Canonical, And Binding. Truths Are Illusions Which We Have Forgotten Are Illusions — They Are Metaphors That Have Become Worn Out And Have Been Drained Of Sensuous Force.

It Is Not When It Is Dangerous To Tell The Truth That Its Advocates Are Hardest To Find, But When It Is Boring.

There Are The Terrible Ones Who Carry About In Themselves The Beast Of Prey, And Have No Choice Except Lusts Or Self-laceration. And Even Their Lusts Are Self-laceration.

Man Is The Cruelest Animal. At Tragedies, Bullfights, And Crucifixions He Has So Far Felt Best On Earth; And When He Invented Hell For Himself, Behold, That Was His Very Heaven.