Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh forth — it speaketh honourably.

‘Behold, I am disease,’ saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness.

But like infection is the petty thought; it creepeth, and hideth, and wanteth to be nowhere — until the whole body is decayed and withered by the petty infection.

To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I would whisper this word in the ear: ‘Better for thee to rear up thy devil! Even for thee there is still a path to greatness!’

Ah my brethren! One knoweth a little too much about every one! And many a one becometh transparent to us, but still we can by no means penetrate him.

It is difficult to live among men, because silence is so difficult.

And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us at all.

If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a testing-place for his suffering. Like a hard bed, however, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou serve him best.

And if a friend doth thee wrong, then say: ‘I forgive thee what thou hast done unto me; that thou hast done it unto thyself, however — how could I forgive that!’

Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity.

One should hold fast one’s heart; for when one letteth it go, how quickly doth one’s head run away!

Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the follies of the pitiful?

Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their pity!

Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: ‘Even God hath his hell: it is his love for man.’

And lately, did I hear him say these words: ‘God is dead: of his pity for man hath God died.’

So be ye warned against pity; from thence there yet cometh unto men a heavy cloud! Verily, I understand weather-signs!

But attend also to this word: all great love is above all its pity; for it seeketh — to create what is loved!

‘Myself do I offer unto my love, and my neighbour as myself’ — such is the language of all creators.

All creators, however, are hard.

Thus spake Zarathustra.