Existence really is an imperfect tense that never becomes a present.

I do not know what the spirit of a philosopher could more wish to be than a good dancer. For the dance is his ideal, also his fine art, finally also the only kind of piety he knows, his 'divine service.'

For a tree to become tall it must grow tough roots among the rocks.

It is the most sensual men who need to flee women and torment their bodies.

Fathers and sons are much more considerate of one another than mothers and daughters.

A man who has depths in his shame meets his destiny and his delicate decisions upon paths which few ever reach . . . .