Improvements Are Invented Only By Those Who

God Is Dead. God Remains Dead. And We Have Killed Him. How Shall We Comfort Ourselves, The Murderers Of All Murderers? What Was Holiest And Mightiest Of All That The World Has Yet Owned Has Bled To Death Under Our Knives: Who Will Wipe This Blood Off Us? What Water Is There For Us To Clean Ourselves? What Festivals Of Atonement, What Sacred Games Shall We Have To Invent? Is Not The Greatness Of This Deed Too Great For Us? Must We Ourselves Not Become Gods Simply To Appear Worthy Of It?

It Is A Terrible Thought, To Contemplate That An Immense Number Of Mediocre Thinkers Are Occupied With Really Influential Matters.

A Letter Is An Unannounced Visit, The Postman The Agent Of Rude Surprises. One Ought To Reserve An Hour A Week For Receiving Letters And Afterwards Take A Bath.

Mistrust Those In Whom The Urge To Punish Is Strong.

Once We Have Found Ourselves, We Must Understand How From Time To Time To Lose--and Then To Find--ourselves Once Again: Assuming,that Is, That We Are Thinkers. For A Thinker It Is A Drawback To Be Bound To A Single Person All The Time.