Subjects — H
To be loved is to be fortunate, but to be hated is to achieve distinction.
Hatred is the vice of narrow souls; they feed it with all their littleness, and make it the pretext of base tyrannies.
Never say anything on the phone that you wouldn’t want your mother to hear at your trial.
While love ceaselessly strives toward that which lies at the hiddenmost center, hatred only perceives the topmost surface and perceives it so exclusively that the devil of hatred, despite all his terror-inspiring cruelty, never is entirely free of ridicule and of a somewhat dilettantish aspect. One who hates is a man holding a magnifying-glass, and when he hates someone, he knows precisely that person’s surface, from the soles of his feet all the way up to each hair on the hated head. Were one merely to seek information, one should inquire of the man who hates, but if one wishes to know what truly is, one better ask the one who loves.
Forcible ways make not an end of evil, but leave hatred and malice behind them.
Hatred is the madness of the heart.
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Hatred is inveterate anger.
Hatreds not vowed and concealed are to be feared more than those openly declared.
You are done for — a living dead man — not when you stop loving but stop hating. Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the “mystery” of life. Not for nothing is hatred still the best tonic ever discovered, for which any organism, however feeble, has a tolerance.