Art Is The Proper Task Of Life.

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!"

Such Men Alone Are My Readers, My Proper Readers, My Preordained Readers. Of What Account Are The Rest? The Rest Are Simply... Humanity. One Must Be Superior To Humanity In Power, In Loftiness Of Soul- In Contempt.

To Explore The Whole Sphere Of The Modern Soul, To Have Sat In Every Nook- My Ambition, My Torture, And My Happiness

One Does Not Kill By Anger But By Laughter.

In Solitude There Grows What Anyone Brings Into It, The Inner Beast Too. Therefore Solitude Is Inadvisable To Many.