Leo

“If I were to be asked what we are, I should answer: 'We are the door to everything that can be, we are the expectation that no material response can satisfy, no trick with words deceive. We seek the heights. Each one of us can ignore this search if he has a mind to, but mankind as a whole aspires to these heights; they are the only definition of his nature, his only justification and significance.”
― Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality

“The slave revolt in morality begins when 'ressentiment' itself becomes creative and gives birth to values: the ressentiment of natures that are denied the true reaction, that of deeds, and compensate themselves with an imaginary revenge. While every noble morality develops from a triumphant affirmation of itself, slave morality from the outset says No to what is "outside," what is "different," what is "not itself"; and this No is its creative deed.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals

“The death of God has as many meanings as there are forces capable of seizing Christ and making him die; but we are still waiting for the forces or the power which will carry this death to its highest point and make it into something more than an apparent and abstract death.”
― Gilles Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy

“But even more than by the filth of its organs, the flower is betrayed by the fragility of its corolla: thus, far from answering the demands of human ideas, it is the sign of their failure. In fact, after a very short period of glory the marvelous corolla rots indecently in the sun, thus becoming, for the plant, a garish withering. Risen from the stench of the manure pile---even though it seemed for a moment to have escaped it in a flight of angelic and lyrical purity---the flower seems to relapse abruptly into its original squalor: the most ideal is rapidly reduced to a wisp of aerial manure. For flowers do not age honestly like leaves, which lose nothing of their beauty, even after they have died; flowers wither like old and overly made-up dowagers, and they die ridiculously on stems that seemed to carry them to the clouds.”
― Georges Bataille, Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927–1939