It Is I, The Ungodly Zarathustra, Who

Pitch-black Winter Nights Live In My Bones.

Whatever Is Gold Does Not Glitter. A Gentle Radiance Belongs To The Noblest Metal.

We Are Unknown To Ourselves, We Men Of Knowledge - And With Good Reason. We Have Never Sought Ourselves - How Could It Happen That We Should Ever Find Ourselves? It Has Rightly Been Said: "where Your Treasure Is, There Will Your Heart Be Also"; Our Treasure Is Where The Beehives Of Our Knowledge Are.

Talking Much About Oneself May Be A Way Of Hiding Oneself.

We Come To Recognize That Playfulness, As A Philosophical Stance, Can Be Very Serious Indeed; And Moreover, That It Possesses An Unfailing Capacity To Arouse Ridicule And Hostility In Those Among Us Who Crave Certainty, Reverence, And Restraint.