For this am I from the heart and from the beginning — drawing, hither-drawing, upward-drawing, upbringing; a drawer, a trainer, a training-master, who not in vain counselled himself once on a time: ‘Become what thou art!’

Thus may men now come up to me, for as yet do I await the signs that it is time for my down-going; as yet do I not myself go down, as I must do, amongst men.

Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high mountains, no impatient one, no patient one; rather one who hath even unlearnt patience — because he no longer ‘suffereth’.

For my fate giveth me time; it hath forgotten me perhaps? Or doth it sit behind a big stone and catch flies?

And verily, I am well-disposed to mine eternal fate, because it doth not hound and hurry me, but leaveth me time for merriment and mischief; so that I have today ascended this high mountain to catch fish.

Did ever any one catch fish upon high mountains? And though it be a folly what I here seek and do, it is better so than that down below I should become solemn with waiting, and green and yellow —

A posturing wrath-snorter with waiting, a holy howl-storm from the mountains, an impatient one that shouteth down into the valleys: ‘Hearken, else I will scourge you with the scourge of God!’

Not that I would have a grudge against such wrathful ones on that account: they are well enough for laughter to me! Impatient must they now be, those big alarm-drums, which find a voice now or never!

Myself, however, and my fate — we do not talk to the Present, neither do we talk to the Never; for talking we have patience and time and more than time. For one day must it yet come, and may not pass by.

What must one day come and may not pass by? Our great Hazar: that is to say, our great, remote human- kingdom, the Zarathustra-kingdom of a thousand years —

How remote may such ‘remoteness’ be? What doth it concern me? But on that account it is none the less sure unto me; with both feet stand I secure on this ground —

On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on this highest, hardest, primary mountain-ridge unto which all winds come, as unto the storm-parting, asking ‘Where?’ and ‘Whence?’ and ‘Whither?’

Here laugh, laugh, my hearty, healthy wickedness! From high mountains cast down thy glittering scorn- laughter! Allure for me with thy glittering the finest human fish!

And whatever belongeth unto me in all seas, my in-and-for-me in all things — fish that out for me, bring that up to me: for that do I wait, the wickedest of all fish-catchers.

Out, out, my fishing-hook! In and down, thou bait of my happiness! Drip thy sweetest dew, thou honey of my heart! Bite, my fishing-hook, into the belly of all black affliction!

Look out, look out, mine eye! Oh, how many seas round about me, what dawning human futures! And above me — what rosy red stillness! What unclouded silence!