Life is a well of delight, but to him in whom the ruined stomach speaketh, the father of affliction, all fountains are poisoned.

To discern: that is delight to the lion-willed! But he who hath become weary, is himself merely “willed”; with him play all the waves.

And such is always the nature of weak men: they lose themselves on their way. And at last asketh their weariness: “Why did we ever go on the way? All is indifferent!”

To them soundeth it pleasant to have preached in their ears: “Nothing is worth while! Ye shall not will!” That, however, is a sermon for slavery.

O my brethren, a fresh blustering wind cometh Zarathustra unto all way-weary ones; many noses will he yet make sneeze!