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In loneliness, the lonely one eats himself; in a crowd, the many eat him. Now choose.
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Noble and wise men once believed in the music of the spheres: noble and wise men still continue to believe in the "moral significance of existence." But one day even this sphere-music will no longer be audible to them! They will wake up and take note that their ears were dreaming.
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You must be born for your physician, otherwise you are bound to perish because of your physician.
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Everything good is the transmutation of something evil: every god has a devil for a father.
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What is not intelligible to me is not necessarily unintelligent.
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The visionary lies to himself, the liar only to others.
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In his lonely solitude, the solitary man feeds upon himself; in the thronging multitude, the many feed upon him. Now choose.
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Only individuals have a sense of responsibility.
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Everything that is profound loves the mask: the profoundest things have a hatred even of figure and likeness.
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I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God: for he must succumb through the wrath of his God.
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In music the passions enjoy themselves.
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In the stream.- Mighty waters draw much stone and rubble along with them; mighty spirits many stupid and bewildered heads.
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Underneath the reality in which we live and have our being, another altogether different reality lies concealed.
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Invisible threads are the strongest ties.
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The hardest thing of all is to find a black cat in a dark room, especially if there is no cat.
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There's no defense against stupidity.
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We are, all of us, growing volcanoes that approach the hour of their eruption; but how near or distant that is, nobody knows - not even God.
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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.
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After all, what would be "beautiful" if the contradiction had not first become conscious of itself, if the ugly had not first said to itself: "I am ugly"?.
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Only idiots fail to contradict themselves three times a day.
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We take a fancy to something: and scarcely have we thoroughly taken a fancy to it when that tyrant in us calls out: "Give me thatin sacrifice"--and we give it.
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We must learn to love, learn to be kind, and this from the earliest youth; if education or chance give us no opportunity to practice these feelings, our soul becomes dry and unsuited even to understanding the tender inventions of loving people.
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To our strongest impulse, to the tyrant in us, not only our reason but also our conscience yields.
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The most welcome joke to me is the one that takes the place of a heavy, not altogether innocuous thought, at once a cautionary hint of the finger and a flash of the eye.