one of those scented mannikins-about-town of history, a thing half-priest, half-satyr (Renan parfum ), which betrays by the high, shrill falsetto of his applause what he lacks and where he lacks it, who betrays where in this case the Fates have plied their ghastly shears, alas! in too surgeon-like a fashion! This is distasteful to me, and irritates my patience; let him keep patient at such sights who has nothing to lose thereby⁠—such a sight enrages me, such spectators embitter me against the “play,” even more than does the play itself (history itself, you understand); Anacreontic moods imperceptibly come over me. This Nature, who gave to the steer its horn, to the lion its χάσμ’ ὀδοντων, for what purpose did Nature give me my foot?⁠—To kick, by St. Anacreon, and not merely to run away! To trample on all the worm-eaten “chairs,” the cowardly contemplators, the lascivious eunuchs of history, the flirters with ascetic ideals, the righteous hypocrites of impotence! All reverence on my part to the ascetic ideal, in so far as it is honourable