We Are Most Unfair To God; We

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.

I Am Driven Out Of Fatherlands And Motherlands. Thus I Now Love Only My Children's Land, Yet Undiscovered, In The Farthest Sea; For This I Bid My Sails Search And Search.

Let Woman Be A Plaything, Pure And Fine, Like A Precious Stone, Illumined With The Virtues Of A World Not Yet Come.

And So Do You Suppose It Must Be A Piece-work Because It Has Been Given To You (and Could Only Be Given To You) In Pieces?

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.