47 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV
A smell and odour of eternity, a smell blissful as roses, brown, like golden wine, an odour of old happiness !
An odour of the drunken happiness of midnight- death, that singeth : ' The world is deep, and deeper than ever day thought it might!'
��Leave me ! Leave me ! I am too pure for thee ! Touch me not ! Hath my world not this moment become perfect ?
My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me, thou stupid, doltish, sultry day ! Is midnight not brighter ?
The purest shall be the lords of earth ; the least recognised, the strongest, the midnight-souls, which are brighter and deeper than any day.
O day, thou graspest after me ? Thou gropest for my happiness ? For thee I am rich, lonely, a treasure pit, a gold chamber ?
O world, thou wantest me? Am I of the world for thee ? Am I spiritual for thee ? Am I divine for thee ? But day and world, ye are too bulky.
Have cleverer hands ; grasp for deeper happiness, for deeper misfortune ; grasp for any God, grasp not for me !
My misfortune and my happiness are deep, thou strange day, and yet I am no God, no God's hell. Deep is its woe.
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