ON READING AND WRITING

ON READING AND WRITING

OF ALL THAT IS written I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will find that blood is spirit.

It is no easy task to understand strange blood; I hate those readers who idle.

Whoever knows the reader, does nothing more for the reader. Another century of readers-and spirit itself will stink.

That every one may learn to read in the long run corrupts not only writing but also thinking.

Once the spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becomes herd.

Whoever writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read but to be learned by heart.

In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that one must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks, and those who are addressed, tall and lofty.

The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a gay malice: these go well together.

I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. The courage that scares away ghosts creates goblins for itself—courage wants to laugh.

I no longer feel as you do; the cloud which I see beneath me, this blackness and gravity at which I laugh-that is your thunder-cloud.

You look up when you long for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated.

Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time?

Whoever climbs on the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness.

Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent-thus wisdom wants us: she is a woman and always loves only a warrior.

You tell me, “Life is hard to bear.” But why would you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening?

Life is hard to bear: but do not pretend to be so delicate! We are all of us fine beasts of burden, male and female asses.

What do we have in common with the rosebud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on it?

It is true: we love life, not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving.

There is always some madness in love. But there is always also some reason in madness.

And to me also, as I am well disposed toward life, butterflies and soap bubbles and whatever among men is of their kind seem to know most about happiness.

To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little souls flutter—that seduces Zarathustra to tears and songs.

I would believe only in a god who could dance.

And when I saw my devil I found him serious, thorough, profound, and solemn: he was the spirit of gravity—through him all things fall.

Not by wrath does one kill but by laughter. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!

I learned to walk: ever since, I let myself run. I learned to fly: ever since, I do not want a push before moving along.

Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.