The whole book contains no negative word, no attack, no spite—it lies in the sun, round, happy, like some sea animal basking among rocks.
Ultimately, I myself was this sea animal: almost every sentence in this book was first thought, caught, among that jumble of rocks near Genoa where I was alone and still had secrets with the sea. Even now, whenever I accidentally touch this book, almost every sentence turns for me into a net that again brings up from the depths something incomparable: it’s entire skin trembles with tender thrills of memory. The art that distinguishes it is not inconsiderable when it comes to fixing to some extent things that easily flit by, noiselessly—moments I call divine lizards—but not with the cruelty of that young Greek god who simply speared the poor little lizard; though, to be sure with something pointed—a pen.
― Nietzsche, Ecce Homo