EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

Toward the tresses of chance, Wise enough to lead, To outwit chance like a child. To-day I will be hospitable 'Gainst the unwelcome, 'Gainst destiny itself I will not be prickly.... —Zarathustra is no hedgehog. My soul, Insatiable with its tongue, Has already tasted of all things good and evil, And has dived into all depths. But ever, like the cork, It swims to the surface again, And floats like oil upon brown seas: Because of this soul men call me fortunate. Who are my father and mother? Is not my father Prince Plenty? And my mother Silent Laughter? Did not the union of these two Beget me, the enigmatic beast—