Ressentiment (n.) is the weak triumphing as weak — the slaves' revolt, and their victory as slaves.
Ressentiment (n.) is an imaginary revenge, an essentially spiritual vindication.
Ressentiment (n.) invents the good wretch, the good weakling — no revenge on the strong and happy could be better.
The Ressentiment (n.) is like a dog that reacts only to traces — a bloodhound; his chief symptom is a prodigious memory.
Ressentiment (n.) is force separated from what it can do: not ceasing to exist, it turns against itself and produces suffering.
Ressentiment (n.) is the subjects' eternal answer to the despots' eternal vengeance: the instinct for freedom, made latent, venting itself only on itself.
Ressentiment (n.) is soothed only once its contagion spreads: it wants all of life to turn reactive, and the healthy to fall sick.
Ressentiment (n.) is resentment of the event: taking whatever happens as unjust and someone else's fault — the only ill will, and what makes our sores repugnant.
Ressentiment (n.) is not a part of psychology; all of our psychology, unknowingly, is a part of ressentiment.
Ressentiment (n.) says "it's your fault"; bad conscience says "it's my fault"; and their common fruit is responsibility.
Ressentiment (n.) says: 'It is your fault if no one loves me, your fault if I've failed in life — and your fault if you fail in yours.'
Ressentiment (n.) rests on a fiction: a force separated from what it can do — blameworthy if it acts, deserving if it does not.
The Ressentiment (n.) does not know how to love, but wants to be loved — fed, watered, caressed and put to sleep — and takes it as proof of malice that he is not.
Ressentiment (n.) is what drives the debaters and communicators: hurling empty generalizations at each other, they speak only of themselves.
Ressentiment (n.) is not a strong reaction: the man of ressentiment does not re-act at all — his reaction ceases to be acted and becomes something felt.
Ressentiment (n.) may be what makes us human: strip a man of it, so he no longer accuses or belittles existence — would he still be a man, or almost the Overman already?
The Ressentiment (n.) needs no great injury: beauty and goodness offend him as much as pain, because he blames every object for his own powerlessness to invest anything but the trace.
Ressentiment (n.) shows itself most strikingly in disparagement — not its man's nastiness but his disgusting malevolence; he respects neither friends nor enemies, nor even misfortune.
Ressentiment (n.) runs two ways: back against oneself and out against the Other — the father is dead, my fault; who killed him? your fault, the Jews', the Arabs', the Chinese.
Ressentiment (n.) hides its hatred under a tempting love: 'I who accuse you, it is for your own good; I love you so that you will join me' — until you too become a painful, sick, good being.