And if the fault lay in our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him badly? If there was dirt in our ears, well, who put it in them?

Too much miscarried with him, this potter who had not learned thoroughly! That he took revenge on his pots and creations, however, because they turned out badly—that was a sin against good taste.

There is also good taste in piety; this at last said: Away with such a God! Better to have no God, better to set up destiny on one’s own account, better to be a fool, better to be God oneself!

What do I hear! said then the old pope, with intent ears; O Zarathustra, thou art more pious than thou believest, with such an unbelief! Some God in thee hath converted thee to thine ungodliness.

Is it not thy piety itself which no longer letteth thee believe in a God? And thine over-great honesty will yet lead thee even beyond good and evil!

Behold, what hath been reserved for thee? Thou hast eyes and hands and mouth which have been predestined for blessing from eternity. One doth not bless with the hand alone.

Nigh unto thee, though thou professest to be the ungodliest one, I feel a hale and holy odour of long benedictions; I feel glad and grieved thereby!

Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth shall I now feel better than with thee!

Amen! So shall it be! said Zarathustra with great astonishment. Up thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra.

Gladly, forsooth, would I conduct thee thither myself, thou venerable one; for I love all pious men. But now a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from thee.

In my domain shall no one come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And best of all would I like to put every sorrowful one again on firm land and firm legs.

Who, however, could take thy melancholy off thy shoulders? For that I am too weak. Long, verily, should we have to wait until some one re-awoke thy God for thee.

For that old God liveth no more: he is indeed dead.

Thus spake Zarathustra.