"The man who remaineth a pupil requiteth his teacher but ill. And why would ye not pluck at my wreath?
"Ye honour me; but what if your reverence should one day break down? Take heed, lest a statue crush you.
"Ye say ye believe in Zarathustra? But of; what account is Zarathustra? Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers?
"Ye had not yet sought yourselves when ye found me. Thus do all believers; therefore is all believing worth so little.
"Now I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all denied me will I come back unto you."
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.
On this perfect day, when everything is ripening, and not only the grapes are getting brown, a ray of sunshine has fallen on my life: I looked behind me, I looked before me, and never have I seen so many good things all at once. Not in vain have I buried my four-and-fortieth year to-day; I had the right to bury it—that in it which still had life, has been saved and is immortal. The first book of the Transvaluation of all Values, The Songs of Zarathustra, The Twilight of the Idols, my attempt, to philosophise with the hammer—all these things are the gift of this year, and even of its last quarter. How could I help being thankful to the whole of my life?
That is why I am now going to tell myself the story of my life.