Ultimately One Loves One's Desires

Without Meaning, Without Substance, Without Aim: A Mere 'public Opinion'.

One Never Perishes Through Anybody But Oneself.

More And More It Seems To Me That The Philosopher, Being Of Necessity A Man Of Tomorrow And The Day After Tomorrow, Has Always Found Himself, And Had To Find Himself, In Contradiction To His Today: His Enemy Was Ever The Ideal Of Today. So Far All These Extraordinary Furtherers Of Men Whom One Calls Philosophers, Though They Themselves Have Rarely Felt Like Friends Of Wisdom But Rather Like Disagreeable Fools And Dangerous Question Marks, Have Found Their Task, Their Hard, Unwanted, Inescapable Task, But Eventually Also The Greatness Of Their Task, In Being The Bad Conscience Of Their Time.

It Is Only When We Have Ceased To Be The Followers Of Our Followers That We Comprehend How Meaningless Followers Are.

Only Ideas Won By Walking Have Any Value.