In thy presence they feel themselves small, and their baseness gleameth and gloweth against thee in invisible vengeance.

Sawest thou not how often they became dumb when thou approachedst them, and how their energy left them like the smoke of an extinguishing fire?

Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art thou of thy neighbours; for they are unworthy of thee. Therefore they hate thee, and would fain suck thy blood.

Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies; what is great in thee⁠—that itself must make them more poisonous, and always more fly-like.

Flee, my friend, into thy solitude⁠—and thither, where a rough strong breeze bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.⁠—

Thus spake Zarathustra.