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.
Table of Contents
PREFACE
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