O mine animals, answered Zarathustra, talk on thus and let me listen! It refresheth me so to hear your talk; where there is talk, there is the world as a garden unto me.

How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and tones rainbows and seeming bridges ’twixt the eternally separated?

To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a back-world.

Among the most alike doth semblance deceive most delightfully; for the smallest gap is most difficult to bridge over.

For me — how could there be an outside-of-me? There is no outside! But this we forget on hearing tones; how delightful it is that we forget!

Have not names and tones been given unto things that man may refresh himself with them? It is a beautiful folly, speaking; therewith danceth man over everything.

How lovely is all speech and all falsehoods of tones! With tones danceth our love on variegated rainbows.

O Zarathustra, said then his animals, to those who think like us, things all dance themselves: they come and hold out the hand and laugh and flee — and return.

Everything goeth, everything returneth; eternally rolleth the wheel of existence. Everything dieth, everything blossometh forth again; eternally runneth on the year of existence.

Everything breaketh, everything is integrated anew; eternally buildeth itself the same house of existence. All things separate, all things again greet one another; eternally true to itself remaineth the ring of existence.

Every moment beginneth existence, around every ‘Here’ rolleth the ball ‘There’. The middle is everywhere. Crooked is the path of eternity.’

O ye wags and barrel-organs, answered Zarathustra, and smiled once more. How well do ye know what had to be fulfilled in seven days —

And how that monster crept into my throat and choked me! But I bit off its head and spat it away from me.

And ye — ye have made a lyre-lay out of it? Now, however, do I lie here, still exhausted with that biting and spitting-away, still sick with mine own salvation.

And ye looked on at it all? O mine animals, are ye also cruel? Did ye like to look at my great pain as men do? For man is the cruellest animal.

At tragedies, bull-fights and crucifixions hath he hitherto been happiest on earth; and when he invented his hell, behold, that was his heaven on earth.

When the great man crieth — immediately runneth the little man thither, and his tongue hangeth out of his mouth for very lusting. He, however, calleth it his ‘pity’.

The little man, especially the poet — how passionately doth he accuse life in words! Hearken to him, but do not fail to hear the delight which is in all accusation!

Such accusers of life — them life overcometh with a glance of the eye. ‘Thou lovest me?’ saith the insolent one. ‘Wait a little, as yet have I no time for thee.’