I Speak And The Child

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?

Every Philosophy Is The Philosophy Of Some Stage Of Life.

Love Is Blind, Friends Close Their Eyes

It Is Always Consoling To Think Of Suicide: In That Way One Gets Through Many A Bad Night.

Some Die Too Young, Some Die Too Old; The Precept Sounds Strange, But Die At The Right Age.