behold, there lay the other sea spread out before him; and he stood still and was long silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and starry.

I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well, I am ready! Now hath my last lonesomeness begun.

Ah, this sombre, sad sea below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation! Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now go down!

Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wandering; therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended—

Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest flood! So willeth my fate. Well, I am ready!

Whence come the highest mountains? So did I once ask. Then did I learn that they come out of the sea.

That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their summits. Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.

Thus spake Zarathustra on the ridge of the mountain where it was cold; when, however, he came into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stood alone amongst the cliffs, then had he become weary on his way, and more eager than ever before.

Everything as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and strangely doth its eye gaze upon me.

But it breatheth warmly—I feel it. And I feel also that it dreameth. It tosseth about dreamily on hard pillows.

Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evil expectations?

Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myself even for thy sake.

Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed, would I free thee from evil dreams!

And while Zarathustra thus spake, he laughed at himself with melancholy and bitterness. What, Zarathustra, said he. Wilt thou even sing consolation to the sea?

Ah, thou amiable fool, Zarathustra, thou too-blindly confiding one! But thus hast thou ever been; ever hast thou approached confidently all that is terrible.

Every monster wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on its paw—and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it.

Love is the danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, if it only live! Laughable, verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!

Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed thereby a second time. Then, however, he thought of his abandoned friends—and as if he had done them a wrong with his thoughts, he upbraided himself because of his thoughts. And forthwith it came to pass that the laugher wept—with anger and longing wept Zarathustra bitterly.