Brightness of midnight was ever around me; lonesomeness cowered beside her; and as a third, death- rattle stillness, the worst of my female friends.

Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to open with them the most creaking of all gates.

Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound through the long corridors when the leaves of the gate opened; ungraciously did this bird cry, unwillingly was it awakened.

But more frightful even, and more heart-strangling was it, when it again became silent and still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant silence.

Thus did time pass with me and slip by, if time there still was: what do I know thereof! But at last there happened that which awoke me.

Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like thunders, thrice did the vaults resound and howl again; then did I go to the gate.

Alpa! cried I. Who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! Who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain?

And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself. But not a finger’s-breadth was it yet open.

Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart; whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin.

And in the roaring and whistling and whizzing the coffin burst up, and spouted out a thousand peals of laughter.

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?

Verily, like a thousand peals of children’s laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres, laughing at those night-watchmen and grave-guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister keys.

With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and prostrate them; fainting and recovering will demonstrate thy power over them.

And when the long twilight cometh and the mortal weariness, even then wilt thou not disappear from our firmament, thou advocate of life!

New stars hast thou made us see, and new nocturnal glories; verily, laughter itself hast thou spread out over us like a many-hued canopy.