Friedrich Nietzsche

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

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

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Without music, life would be a mistake

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God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms. 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?

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That which does not kill us makes us stronger

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