This however is my teaching: he who wisheth one day to fly, must first learn standing and walking and running and climbing and dancing—one doth not fly into flying!

With rope-ladders learned I to reach many a window, with nimble legs did I climb high masts; to sit on high masts of perception seemed to me no small bliss—

To flicker like small flames on high masts: a small light, certainly, but a great comfort to cast-away sailors and shipwrecked ones!

By divers ways and wendings did I arrive at my truth; not by one ladder did I mount to the height where mine eye roveth into my remoteness.

And unwillingly only did I ask my way—that was always counter to my taste! Rather did I question and test the ways themselves.

A testing and a questioning hath been all my travelling—and verily, one must also learn to answer such questioning! That, however, is my taste—

Neither a good nor a bad taste, but my taste, of which I have no longer either shame or secrecy.

‘This—is now my way. Where is yours?’ Thus did I answer those who asked me ‘the way’. For the way—it doth not exist!

Thus spake Zarathustra.