The Lottery


The Lottery


by Shirley Jackson



The Lottery

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lottery

 

Shirley Jackson

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shirley_Jackson

 

Youtube: The Lottery (1969, Short Film)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1TV1R1kK9A

 

Youtube: The Lottery

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyhNKjliXGc



The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 20th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.


The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”—eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.


Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.


The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said.” Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?” there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.


The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.


Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves’s barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.


There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up–of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.


Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on.” and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running.” She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said.” You’re in time, though. They’re still talking away up there.”


Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd.” Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. “Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie.” Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning.” Wouldn’t have me leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?” and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival.


“Well, now.” Mr. Summers said soberly.” guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to work. Anybody ain’t here?”


“Dunbar.” several people said. “Dunbar. Dunbar.”


Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar.” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg, hasn’t he? Who’s drawing for him?”


“Me. I guess,” a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her husband.” Mr. Summers said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.


“Horace’s not but sixteen yet.” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year. “


“Right.” Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked.” Watson boy drawing this year?”


A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I’m drawing for my mother and me.” He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like “Good fellow, lack.” and “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it.”


“Well,” Mr. Summers said.” guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”


“Here,” a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.


A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. “All ready?” he called. “Now, I’ll read the names–heads of families first–and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”


The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said.” Adams.” A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi. Steve.” Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said. “Hi. Joe.” They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.

“Allen.” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson… Bentham.”


“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries anymore.” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.” Seems like we got through with the last one only last week.”


“Time sure goes fast” Mrs. Graves said.


“Clark… Delacroix.”


“There goes my old man.” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.


“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. “Go on, Janey,” and another said.” There she goes.”


“We’re next.” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand, turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.


“Harburt… Hutchinson.”


“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.


“Jones.”


“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him.” that over in the north village they’re talking of giving up the lottery.”


Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks, nothing’s good enough for them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon. "First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody.”


“Some places have already quit lotteries,” Mrs. Adams said.


“Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools.”


“Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke… Percy.”


“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.”


“They’re almost through,” her son said.


“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.


Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called.” Warner.”


“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. “Seventy-seventh time.”


“Watson.” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said.” Don’t be nervous, Jack,” and Mr. Summers said.” Take your time, son.”


“Zanini.”


After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said.” All right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. “Who is it?,” “Who’s got it?,” “Is it the Dunbars?,” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to say.” It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it.”


“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.


People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. “You didn’t give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!”


“Be a good sport, Tessie,” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said.” All of us took the same chance. “


“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.


“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said.” that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said.” you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?”


“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!”


“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You know that as well as anyone else.”


“It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said.


“I guess not, Joe,” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s family; that’s only fair. And I’ve got no other family except the kids.”


“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in explanation.” and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”


“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.


“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.


“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said.


“There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.”


“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr. Summers directed. “Take Bill’s and put it in.”


“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that.”


Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.


“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.


“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.


“Remember,” Mr. Summers said.” take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. “Take a paper out of the box, Davy,” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper.” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.


“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box “Bill, Jr.,” Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.


“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.


The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered.” I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.


“It’s not the way it used to be,” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they used to be. “


“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s. “


Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.


“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.


“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper, Bill."


Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.


“All right, folks.” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.”


Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. 


“Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.”


Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath. “I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you."


The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles.


Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying.” Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.


“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

Friedrich Nietzsche


Friedrich Nietzsche



Friedrich Nietzsche
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friedrich_Nietzsche



The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.


Not necessity, not desire – no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything – health, food, a place to live, entertainment – they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.


When a hundred men stand together, each of them loses his mind and gets another one.


People who have given us their complete confidence believe that they have a right to ours. The inference is false, a gift confers no rights.


He who cannot give anything away cannot feel anything either. 


Great indebtedness does not make men grateful, but vengeful; and if a little charity is not forgotten, it turns into a gnawing worm.


Is man one of God's blunders? Or is God one of man's blunders?


A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.


Faith: not wanting to know what is true.


In Christianity neither morality nor religion come into contact with reality at any point. 


The Christian resolution to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad.


After coming into contact with a religious man I always feel I must wash my hands.


I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time.


There cannot be a God because if there were one, I could not believe that I was not He.


And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.


A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.


A friend should be a master at guessing and keeping still: you must not want to see everything.


A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends.


A great value of antiquity lies in the fact that its writings are the only ones that modern men still read with exactness.


A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.


A subject for a great poet would be God's boredom after the seventh day of creation.


A woman may very well form a friendship with a man, but for this to endure, it must be assisted by a little physical antipathy.


Admiration for a quality or an art can be so strong that it deters us from striving to possess it.


After coming into contact with a religious man I always feel I must wash my hands.


Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.


All credibility, all good conscience, all evidence of truth come only from the senses.


All sciences are now under the obligation to prepare the ground for the future task of the philosopher, which is to solve the problem of value, to determine the true hierarchy of values.


All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.


All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking.


All truth is simple... is that not doubly a lie?


Although the most acute judges of the witches, and even the witches themselves, were convinced of the guilt of witchery, the guilt nevertheless was non-existent. It is thus with all guilt.


An artist has no home in Europe except in Paris.


And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.


And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.


Anyone who has declared someone else to be an idiot, a bad apple, is annoyed when it turns out in the end that he isn't.


Arrogance on the part of the meritorious is even more offensive to us than the arrogance of those without merit: for merit itself is offensive.


Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest.


Art is the proper task of life.


Art raises its head where creeds relax.


At times one remains faithful to a cause only because its opponents do not cease to be insipid.


Before the effect one believes in different causes than one does after the effect.


Behind all their personal vanity, women themselves always have an impersonal contempt for woman.


Blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders.


Character is determined more by the lack of certain experiences than by those one has had.


Convictions are more dangerous foes of truth than lies.


Do whatever you will, but first be such as are able to will.


Does wisdom perhaps appear on the earth as a raven which is inspired by the smell of carrion?


Egoism is the very essence of a noble soul.


Every church is a stone on the grave of a god-man: it does not want him to rise up again under any circumstances.


Every man is a creative cause of what happens, a primum mobile with an original movement.


'Evil men have no songs.' How is it that the Russians have songs?


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


Experience, as a desire for experience, does not come off. We must not study ourselves while having an experience. 


Extreme positions are not succeeded by moderate ones, but by contrary extreme positions. 


Faith: not wanting to know what is true. 


Fanatics are picturesque, mankind would rather see gestures than listen to reasons. 


Fear is the mother of morality. 


For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication. 


For the woman, the man is a means: the end is always the child. 


Genteel women suppose that those things do not really exist about which it is impossible to talk in polite company. 


Glance into the world just as though time were gone: and everything crooked will become straight to you. 


Go up close to your friend, but do not go over to him! We should also respect the enemy in our friend. 


God is a thought who makes crooked all that is straight. 


Great indebtedness does not make men grateful, but vengeful; and if a little charity is not forgotten, it turns into a gnawing worm.


He that humbleth himself wishes to be exalted. 


He who cannot give anything away cannot feel anything either. 


He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.


Is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves? 


He who has a strong enough why can bear almost any how. 


He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. 


He who laughs best today, will also laughs last. 


He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying. 


Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man. 


I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures, and knows how to turn to its advantage. 


I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time. 


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." 


I love those who do not know how to live for today. 


I still live, I still think: I still have to live, for I still have to think. 


I would believe only in a God that knows how to Dance. 


Idleness is the parent of psychology. 


If a woman possesses manly virtues one should run away from her; and if she does not possess them, she runs away from herself. 


If there is something to pardon in everything, there is also something to condemn. 


In Christianity neither morality nor religion come into contact with reality at any point. 


In every real man a child is hidden that wants to play. 


In everything one thing is impossible: rationality. 


In heaven, all the interesting people are missing. 


In large states public education will always be mediocre, for the same reason that in large kitchens the cooking is usually bad. 


In music the passions enjoy themselves. 


In praise there is more obtrusiveness than in blame. 


In the consciousness of the truth he has perceived, man now sees everywhere only the awfulness or the absurdity of existence and loathing seizes him. 


In the course of history, men come to see that iron necessity is neither iron nor necessary. 

In the last analysis, even the best man is evil: in the last analysis, even the best woman is bad. 


Insanity in individuals is something rare – but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule. 


Is life not a thousand times too short for us to bore ourselves? 


Is man one of God's blunders? Or is God one of man's blunders? 


It is always consoling to think of suicide: in that way one gets through many a bad night. 


It is good to express a thing twice right at the outset and so to give it a right foot and also a left one. Truth can surely stand on one leg, but with two it will be able to walk and get around. 


It is impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge. 


It is my ambition to say in ten sentences what others say in a whole book. 


It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages. 


It is not when truth is dirty, but when it is shallow, that the lover of knowledge is reluctant to step into its waters. 


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


It says nothing against the ripeness of a spirit that it has a few worms. 


Judgments, value judgments concerning life, for or against, can in the last resort never be true: they possess value only as symptoms, they come into consideration only as symptoms – in themselves such judgments are stupidities. 


Let us beware of saying that death is the opposite of life. The living being is only a species of the dead, and a very rare species. 


Love is blind; friendship closes its eyes. 


Love is not consolation. It is light. 


Love matches, so called, have illusion for their father and need for their mother. 


Madness is rare in individuals – but in groups, parties, nations, and ages, it is the rule. 


Many a man fails as an original thinker simply because his memory it too good. 


Many are stubborn in pursuit of the path they have chosen, few in pursuit of the goal. 


Morality is the herd-instinct in the individual. 


Mystical explanations are thought to be deep; the truth is that they are not even shallow. 


Necessity is not an established fact, but an interpretation. 


No one lies so boldly as the man who is indignant. 


Not necessity, not desire – no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything – health, food, a place to live, entertainment – they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied. 


Not when truth is dirty, but when it is shallow, does the enlightened man dislike to wade into its waters. 


Nothing has been purchased more dearly than the little bit of reason and sense of freedom which now constitutes our pride. 


Nothing is beautiful, only man: on this piece of naivete rests all aesthetics, it is the first truth of aesthetics. Let us immediately add its second: nothing is ugly but degenerate man – the domain of aesthetic judgment is therewith defined. 


Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his own blood. 


On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow. 


Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it is even becoming mob. 


One has to pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive. 


One may sometimes tell a lie, but the grimace that accompanies it tells the truth. 


One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. 


One often contradicts an opinion when what is uncongenial is really the tone in which it was conveyed. 


One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too. 


One should die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly. 


Our treasure lies in the beehive of our knowledge. We are perpetually on the way thither, being by nature winged insects and honey gatherers of the mind. 


Our vanity is hardest to wound precisely when our pride has just been wounded. 


People who have given us their complete confidence believe that they have a right to ours. The inference is false, a gift confers no rights.


Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter.


Plato was a bore.


Regarding life, the wisest men of all ages have judged alike: it is worthless.


Rejoicing in our joy, not suffering over our suffering, makes someone a friend. 


Shared joys make a friend, not shared sufferings. 


Sleeping is no mean art: for its sake one must stay awake all day. 


Some are made modest by great praise, others insolent. 


Stupid as a man, say the women: cowardly as a woman, say the men. Stupidity in a woman is unwomanly. 


Success has always been a great liar. 


Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself. 


That which does not kill us makes us stronger. 


The "kingdom of Heaven" is a condition of the heart – not something that comes "upon the earth" or "after death." 


The abdomen is the reason why man does not readily take himself to be a god. 


The aphorism in which I am the first master among Germans, are the forms of "eternity"; my ambition is to say in ten sentences what everyone else says in a book – what everyone else does not say in a book. 


The bad gains respect through imitation, the good loses it especially in art. 


The best author will be the one who is ashamed to become a writer. 


The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy. 


The Christian resolution to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad. 


The demand to be loved is the greatest of all arrogant presumptions. 


The desire to annoy no one, to harm no one, can equally well be the sign of a just as of an anxious disposition. 


The doer alone learneth. 


The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude. 


The future influences the present just as much as the past. 


The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself. 


The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it. 


The lie is a condition of life. 


The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies but also to hate his friends. 


The most common lie is that which one lies to himself; lying to others is relatively an exception. 


The press, the machine, the railway, the telegraph, are premises whose thousand-year conclusion no one has yet dared to draw. 


The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently. 


The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything. 


The word "Christianity" is already a misunderstanding – in reality there has been only one Christian, and he died on the Cross. 


The world itself is the will to power – and nothing else! And you yourself are the will to power –  and nothing else! 


There are horrible people who, instead of solving a problem, tangle it up and make it harder to solve for anyone who wants to deal with it. Whoever does not know how to hit the nail on the head should be asked not to hit it at all. 


There are no eternal facts, as there are no absolute truths. 


There are no facts, only interpretations. 


There are no moral phenomena at all, but only a moral interpretation of phenomena. 


There are people who want to make men's lives more difficult for no other reason than the chance it provides them afterwards to offer their prescription for alleviating life; their Christianity, for instance. 


There are slavish souls who carry their appreciation for favors done them so far that they strangle themselves with the rope of gratitude. 


There are various eyes. Even the Sphinx has eyes: and as a result there are various truths, and as a result there is no truth. 


There cannot be a God because if there were one, I could not believe that I was not He. 


There is a rollicking kindness that looks like malice. 


There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. 


There is an innocence in admiration; it is found in those to whom it has never yet occurred that they, too, might be admired some day. 


There is in general good reason to suppose that in several respects the gods could all benefit from instruction by us human beings. We humans are – more humane. 


There is more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy. 


There is not enough love and goodness in the world to permit giving any of it away to imaginary beings. 


There is not enough religion in the world even to destroy religion. 


There is nothing we like to communicate to others as much as the seal of secrecy together with what lies under it. 


These people abstain, it is true: but the bitch Sensuality glares enviously out of all they do. 


This is the hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love, and keep modest as a giver. 


This is what is hardest: to close the open hand because one loves. 


Those who cannot understand how to put their thoughts on ice should not enter into the heat of debate. 


Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings – always darker, emptier and simpler. 


To be ashamed of one's immorality: that is a step on the staircase at whose end one is also ashamed of one's morality. 


To forget one's purpose is the commonest form of stupidity. 


To use the same words is not a sufficient guarantee of understanding; one must use the same words for the same genus of inward experience; ultimately one must have one's experiences in common. 


Today I love myself as I love my god: who could charge me with a sin today? I know only sins against my god; but who knows my god? 


Two great European narcotics, alcohol and Christianity. 


Undeserved praise causes more pangs of conscience later than undeserved blame, but probably only for this reason, that our power of judgment are more completely exposed by being over praised than by being unjustly underestimated. 


War has always been the grand sagacity of every spirit which has grown too inward and too profound; its curative power lies even in the wounds one receives. 


We do not hate as long as we still attach a lesser value, but only when we attach an equal or a greater value. 


We have art in order not to die of the truth. 


We hear only those questions for which we are in a position to find answers. 


We love life, not because we are used to living but because we are used to loving. 


We often refuse to accept an idea merely because the tone of voice in which it has been expressed is unsympathetic to us. 


What can everyone do? Praise and blame. This is human virtue, this is human madness. 


What do I care about the purring of one who cannot love, like the cat? 


What do you regard as most humane? To spare someone shame. 


What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power, the will to power, power itself in man. 


What then in the last resort are the truths of mankind? They are the irrefutable errors of mankind. 


What? You seek something? You wish to multiply yourself tenfold, a hundredfold? You seek followers? Seek zeros! 


Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil. 


When a hundred men stand together, each of them loses his mind and gets another one.


When art dresses in worn-out material it is most easily recognized as art. 


When marrying, ask yourself this question: Do you believe that you will be able to converse well with this person into your old age? Everything else in marriage is transitory. 


When one does away with oneself one does the most estimable thing possible: one thereby almost deserves to live.


When one has a great deal to put into it a day has a hundred pockets.


When one has finished building one's house, one suddenly realizes that in the process one has learned something that one really needed to know in the worst way – before one began.


When one has not had a good father, one must create one.


Whenever I climb I am followed by a dog called 'Ego'.


Whoever battles with monsters had better see that it does not turn him into a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.


Whoever despises himself nonetheless respects himself as one who despises.


Whoever does not have a good father should procure one.


Whoever feels predestined to see and not to believe will find all believers too noisy and pushy: he guards against them.


Whoever has provoked men to rage against him has always gained a party in his favor, too.


Whoever has witnessed another's ideal becomes his inexorable judge and as it were his evil conscience.


Wit is the epitaph of an emotion.


Without music, life would be a mistake.


Woman was God's second mistake.


Women are considered deep – why? Because one can never discover any bottom to them. Women are not even shallow.


Women are quite capable of entering into a friendship with a man, but to keep it going that takes a little physical antipathy as well.


Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth.


You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.


You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.


You say it is the good cause that hallows even war? I say unto you: it is the good war that hallows any cause.