And when they chance to speak harshly, those small people, then do I hear therein only their hoarseness—every draught of air maketh them hoarse.

Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues have shrewd fingers. But they lack fists; their fingers do not know how to creep behind fists.

Virtue for them is what maketh modest and tame: therewith have they made the wolf a dog, and man himself man’s best domestic animal.

‘We set our chair in the midst’—so saith their smirking unto me— ‘and as far from dying gladiators as from satisfied swine.’

That, however, is—mediocrity, though it be called moderation.

3

I pass through this people and let fall many words; but they know neither how to take nor how to retain them.

They wonder why I came not to revile venery and vice; and verily, I came not to warn against pickpockets either!

They wonder why I am not ready to abet and whet their wisdom: as if they had not yet enough of wiseacres whose voices grate on mine ear like slate-pencils!

And when I call out: ‘Curse all the cowardly devils in you, that would fain whimper and fold the hands and adore’—then do they shout: ‘Zarathustra is godless.’

And especially do their teachers of submission shout this—but precisely in their ears do I love to cry: ‘Yea! I am Zarathustra, the godless!’

Those teachers of submission! Wherever there is aught puny, or sickly, or scabby, there do they creep like lice; and only my disgust preventeth me from cracking them.

Well, this is my sermon for their ears: I am Zarathustra the godless, who saith: ‘Who is more godless than I, that I may enjoy his teaching?’

I am Zarathustra the godless: where do I find mine equal? And all those are mine equals who give unto themselves their Will, and divest themselves of all submission.

I am Zarathustra the godless! I cook every chance in my pot. And only when it hath been quite cooked do I welcome it as my food.

And verily, many a chance came imperiously unto me; but still more imperiously did my Will speak unto it. Then did it lie imploringly upon its knees—

Imploring that it might find home and heart with me, and saying flatteringly: ‘See, O Zarathustra, how friend only cometh unto friend!’

But why talk I, when no one hath mine ears! And so will I shout it out unto all the winds:

Ye ever become smaller, ye small people! Ye crumble away, ye comfortable ones! Ye will yet perish—

By your many small virtues, by your many small omissions, and by your many small submissions!

Too tender, too yielding: so is your soil! But for a tree to become great, it seeketh to twine hard roots around hard rocks!