Of all that is written, I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will find that blood is spirit.
It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate reading idlers.
He who knows the reader, does nothing for the reader. Another century of readers- and spirit itself will stink.
That everyone is allowed to learn to read, ruins in the long run not only writing but also thinking.
Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becomes rabble.
He that writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read, but learnt by heart.
In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route you must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks, and those spoken to should be tall and lofty.
The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joyful wickedness: these things go well together.
I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. Courage which scares away ghosts, creates goblins for itself- it wants to laugh.
I no longer feel as you do; the very cloud which I see beneath me, the blackness and heaviness at which I laugh- that is your thunder-cloud.
You look aloft when you long for exaltation; and I look downward because I am exalted.
Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted?
He who climbs high mountains, laughs at all tragic plays and tragic realities.
Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent- thus wisdom wants us; wisdom is a woman, and always loves only a warrior.
You tell me, “Life is hard to bear.” But why should you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening?
Life is hard to bear: but do not pretend to be so delicate! We are all of us fine sumpter asses and she-asses.
What do we have in common with the rose-bud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on it?
It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we are wont to love.
There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some method in madness.
And to me also, who appreciates life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them, seem to know most about happiness.
To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about- that moves Zarathustra to tears and songs.
I would only believe in a God who could dance.
And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity- through him all things fall.
Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we kill. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!
I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need to be pushed to move from a spot.
Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.Thus spoke Zarathustra.