Do You Suppose That Sacrifice Is The

Great Intellects Are Skeptical.

I Love Those Who Do Not Know How To Live, Except By Going Under, For They Are Those Who Cross Over.

God Is Dead. God Remains Dead. And We Have Killed Him. How Shall We Comfort Ourselves, The Murderers Of All Murderers? What Was Holiest And Mightiest Of All That The World Has Yet Owned Has Bled To Death Under Our Knives: Who Will Wipe This Blood Off Us? What Water Is There For Us To Clean Ourselves? What Festivals Of Atonement, What Sacred Games Shall We Have To Invent? Is Not The Greatness Of This Deed Too Great For Us? Must We Ourselves Not Become Gods Simply To Appear Worthy Of It?

Men Have Hitherto Treated Women Like Birds Which Have Strayed Down To Them From The Heights; As Something More Delicate, More Fragile, More Savage, Stranger, Sweeter, Soulful--but As Something Which Has To Be Caged Up So That It Shall Not Fly Away.

Everyone Carries Within Himself An Image Of Womanliness Derived From His Mother: It Is This That Determines Whether, On The Whole,he Will Revere Women, Or Despise Them, Or Remain Generally Indifferent To Them.