It Is I, The Ungodly Zarathustra, Who

Instruments And Playthings Are Sense And Spirit: Behind Them There Is Still The Self. The Self Seeketh With The Eyes Of The Senses, It Hearkeneth Also With The Ears Of The Spirit.

As Far As Germany Extends It Ruins Culture.

Every Word Has Its Fragrance: There Is A Harmony And A Disharmony Of Fragrances, And Hence Of Words.

But Like Infection Is The Petty Thought: It Creeps And Hides, And Wants To Be Nowhere--until The Whole Body Is Decayed And Withered By The Petty Infection... Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

I Still Live, I Still Think: I Still Have To Live, For I Still Have To Think.