The World (n.) is the manuscript of an other, inaccessible to a universal reading, which only existence deciphers.
World (n.) we call by that name is a sediment of errors and fantasies, colored and made frightful by thousands of years of moral, aesthetic and religious demands.
World (n.) unveiled as a thing in itself would disappoint us horribly; it is the world as our idea, as error, that is so rich, deep and wonderful.
World (n.) cannot be thought as it is in itself: we come to grief whenever we try, since thinking already lends it a meaning.
World (n.) is a monster of energy without beginning or end, a sea of forces storming and flowing in itself, eternally creating and destroying itself: the will to power and nothing else, and you too.
World (n.) is idea, will, war, love or hate, as different thinkers say: each taken alone is false, all taken together are true.