Instinct (n.) once lost to history leaves man unable to trust the divine animal and let go the reins when his reason falters in the desert.
Instinct (n.) turned into knowledge by the artist's writing, he hopes, will turn back into instinct in the souls of his readers.
Instinct (n.) erupting as reason and as passion of the spirit surrounds itself with a resplendent retinue of reasons, and tries with all its force to make us forget that at bottom it is drive, folly, lack of reasons.
Instinct (n.) forgets even lunch when the house burns, and eats it later in the ashes.
Instinct (n.) is of all the kinds of intelligence discovered so far the most intelligent — witness the Jesuitical craftiness with which mediocre spirits react to higher ones.
Instinct (n.) becomes weaker when it rationalizes itself: the very act of rationalization is a weakness — you do not refute a disease.
Instinct (n.) reaches a perfect automatism, the presupposition of every mastery, when every holy lie pushes a proven way of life back out of consciousness.
Instinct (n.) is where the perfect life must be sought — where life has become least conscious of its logic, its reasons, its means: in the stored-up integrity of "little people" a little afraid of principles.
Instinct (n.) is the unerring hand that was groping all along for the way which looked, at the time, like a chain of accidents and baroque caprice.
Instinct (n.) should be trusted more — even the instinct of revulsion.
Instinct (n.) has a history too: instincts have become, so they prove nothing about the super-sensible — not even about the typically human.