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Since Copernicus, man seems to have got himself on an inclined plane-now he is slipping faster and faster away from the center into-what? into nothingness? into a 'penetrating sense of his nothingness?' ... all science, natural as well as unnatural-which is what I call the self-critique of knowledge-has at present the object of dissuading man from his former respect for himself, as if this had been but a piece of bizarre conceit.
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Every word is a prejudice.
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We ought to fear a man who hates himself, for we are at risk of becoming victims of his anger and revenge. Let us then try to lure him into self-love.
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The most instructive experiences are those of everyday life.
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Your only problem, perhaps, is that you scream without letting yourself cry.
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One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.
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Feinde der Wahrheit. - Überzeugungen sind gefährlichere Feinde der Wahrheit, als Lügen.
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One who is unassuming in dealing with people exhibits his arrogance all the more strongly in dealing with things (city, state, society, age, mankind). That is his revenge.
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Gegen die Langeweile kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens.
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Where do your greatest dangers lie?--In pity.
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The deeper minds of all ages have had pity for animals.
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One has to pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive.
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Morality is: the mediocre are worth more than the exceptions … I abhore Christianity with a deadly hatred.
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Faith: not wanting to know what is true.
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Dreadful experiences raise the question whether he who experiences them, is not something dreadful also.
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Every tradition grows continually more venerable, and the more remote its origins, the more this is lost sight of. The veneration paid the tradition accumulates from generation to generation, until it at last becomes holy and excites awe.
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You say, it's dark. And in truth, I did place a cloud before your sun. But do you not see how the edges of the cloud are already glowing and turning light.
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In every age the wisest have passed the identical judgment on life: it is worthless.
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We talk so abstractly about poetry because all of us are usually bad poets.
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Sometimes in our relationship to another human being the proper balance of friendship is restored when we put a few grains of impropriety onto our own side of the scale.
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Not with wrath do we kill, but with laughter. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!
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Every one being allowed to learn to read, ruineth in the long run not only writing but also thinking.
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We should be a mirror of being: we are God in miniature.
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There will be but few people who, when at a loss for topics of conversation, will not reveal the more secret affairs of their friends.