In The End One Only Experiences Oneself.

It Is Only Those Who Know How To Feel That "this Is Not Good" Who Devise Improvements.

He That Writeth In Blood And Proverbs Doth Not Want To Be Read, But Learnt By Heart.

When Zarathustra Was Alone . . . He Said To His Heart: "could It Be Possible! This Old Saint In The Forest Hath Not Yet Heard Of It, That God Is Dead!"

Our Sense Of The Tragic Waxes And Wanes With Our Sensuality.

To Escape Boredom, Man Works Either Beyond What His Usual Needs Require, Or Else He Invents Play, That Is, Work That Is Designed To Quiet No Need Other Than That For Working In General.