And a thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and mocked, and roared at me.

Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated me. And I cried with horror as I ne’er cried before.

But mine own crying awoke me:⁠—and I came to myself.⁠—

Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then was silent: for as yet he knew not the interpretation thereof. But the disciple whom he loved most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra’s hand, and said:

“Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream, O Zarathustra!

“Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill whistling, which bursteth open the gates of the fortress of Death?

“Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued malices and angel-caricatures of life?