And recently did a woman seize upon her child that was coming unto me: “Take the children away,” cried she, “such eyes scorch children’s souls.”

They cough when I speak: they think coughing an objection to strong winds⁠—they divine nothing of the boisterousness of my happiness!

“We have not yet time for Zarathustra”⁠—so they object; but what matter about a time that “hath no time” for Zarathustra?

And if they should altogether praise me, how could I go to sleep on their praise? A girdle of spines is their praise unto me: it scratcheth me even when I take it off.

And this also did I learn among them: the praiser doeth as if he gave back; in truth, however, he wanteth more to be given him!