Energy Wasted On Negative Ends.

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.

Watch Them Clamber, These Swift Monkeys! They Clamber Over One Another And Thus Drag One Another Into The Mud And The Depth. They All Want To Get To The Throne: That Is Their Madness — As If Happiness Sat On The Throne. Often, Mud Sits On The Throne — And Often The Throne Also On Mud. Mad They All Appear To Me, Clambering Monkeys And Overardent. Foul Smells Their Idol, The Cold Monster: Foul, They Smell To Me Altogether, These Idolators.

Christians Call It Faith ... I Call It The Herd.

The Snake Which Cannot Cast Its Skin Has To Die.

The Various Languages Placed Side By Side Show That With Words It Is Never A Question Of Truth, Never A Question Of Adequate Expression; Otherwise, There Would Not Be So Many Languages. The 'thing In Itself' (which Is Precisely What The Pure Truth, Apart From Any Of Its Consequences, Would Be) Is Likewise Something Quite Incomprehensible To The Creator Of Language And Something Not In The Least Worth Striving For.