THE SHADOW
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��with head and heart. Oh, how often have I stood naked, red like a crab through so doing !
Alas, whither hath gone all that is good and all shame and all belief in the good ! Alas, whither hath gone that deceitful innocence I once possessed, the innocence of the good and of their noble falsehoods !
Too often, verily, I followed truth close on its heel. Then it kicked me on the forehead. Sometimes I thought I lied, and behold ! only then did I hit upon truth !
Too many things were made clear unto me. Now it concerneth me no more. Nothing of what I love liveth any longer, why should I love myself still ?
'To live, as I like, or to live not at all,' thus I will, thus even the holiest one willeth. But alas ! how do / still like ?
Have / still a goal ? A harbour for which my sail is trimmed ?
A good wind ? Alas, only he who knoweth whither he saileth, knoweth also what wind is good, and what is his fair wind.
What is left unto me ? A heart weary and insolent ; an unstable will ; fluttering wings ; a broken back-bone.
This seeking after my home, O Zarathustra, knowest thou ? this seeking was my punishment, it eateth me up.
' Where is my home ? ' Thus I ask and seek and have sought. I have found it not. Oh, eternal Every- where ! Oh, eternal Nowhere ! Oh, eternal In-vain ! "
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