Dread (n.) is a sympathetic antipathy and an antipathetic sympathy.
Dread (n.) that immediacy feels before its own good fortune trembles in Aladdin's plea to the spirit to answer "sincerely."
Dread (n.) drives many through life in haste: fearing the dialectic most of all, they say "repent nothing" of the past and might as justly say "deliberate nothing" of the future — as Scribe's fellow never made a plan, so never saw one fail.
Dread (n.) is not despair in Don Juan but his energy: the whole power of sensuousness is born in dread, and that dread is precisely the daemonic joy of life.
Dread (n.) is Nero's inmost nature behind the imperial glance: the spirit wants to break through and cannot, so any child's look terrifies him, as though that person owned him.
Dread (n.) turned on oneself is the fear that no sin is so black, no selfishness so odious, that it might not sneak in and master you; whoever has never sensed it should not open his mouth to reply.
Dread (n.) is not fear of something definite; it is freedom's reality as possibility for possibility.
Dread (n.) cannot be escaped, for one loves it — and yet one does not truly love it, for one runs from it.
Dread (n.) is neither necessity nor freedom but a trammeled freedom — freedom fettered not by necessity but by itself.
Dread (n.) is what sermons on Abraham leave out — and without it, sacrificing Isaac is just giving up 'the best', like money.
Dread (n.) lives in the gap between two names for one act: ethically, Abraham would murder Isaac; religiously, he would sacrifice him.
Dread (n.) is a fire fanned by two draughts, earthly desire and earthly uncertainty.
Dread (n.) that even the most trusted person might one day be unfaithful lives secretly in every soul; no human love wholly drives it out, and it stirs when the storms of life begin.