The Psychologist (n.) impales painful things with the point of a needle — no wonder he has blood on his fingers, and not always only on his fingers.
A Psychologist (n.) who clears away the superstitions around the soul exiles himself into a new desert, and thereby condemns himself to invention, and perhaps to discovery.
A Psychologist (n.) sails right over morality, perhaps crushing the remains of his own — "but what matter are we!"
A Psychologist (n.) is a lone hunter in the primeval forest of the soul; the scholars sent as hounds lose their nose precisely where the great hunt — and the great danger — begins.
A Psychologist (n.) must stop looking at himself if he wants to see anything at all.
A Psychologist (n.) who is born never observes for the sake of observing, because the eye turns evil if you look at yourself in the middle of an experience.
A Psychologist (n.) must shut his eyes to himself and seem impersonal — the great egoism of a dominating will demands it, precisely because he is a psychologist to an eccentric degree.
A Psychologist (n.) of the born kind is in danger of being choked with pity, because the ruin of higher people is the rule, so he flees to normal, well-ordered people, afraid of his own memory.
A Psychologist (n.) must never want to see for the sake of seeing: live and wait until experience sifts itself — one must never know how one came to know something.
A Psychologist (n.) must not want to be shrewd: whoever snatches little advantages from his knowledge of men moves from the general to the particular, while we must look outwards from the most particular.