They all speak of me when they sit around their fire in the evening- they speak of me, but no one thinks- of me!
This is the new stillness which I have experienced: their noise around me spreads a mantle over my thoughts.
They shout to one another: "What is this gloomy cloud about to do to us? Let us see that it does not bring a plague upon us!"
And recently did a woman seize upon her child that was coming to me: "Take the children away," cried she, "such eyes scorch children's souls."
They cough when I speak: they think coughing an objection to strong winds- they divine nothing of the boisterousness of my happiness!
"We have not yet time for Zarathustra"- so they object; but what matter about a time that "has no time" for Zarathustra?
And if they should altogether praise me, how could I go to sleep on their praise? A girdle of spines is their praise to me: it scratches me even when I take it off.
And this also did I learn among them: the praiser does as if he gave back; in truth, however, he wants more to be given him!
Ask my foot if their lauding and luring strains please it! to such measure and ticktack, it likes neither to dance nor to stand still.
To small virtues would they rather lure and laud me; to the ticktack of small happiness would they rather persuade my foot.
I pass through this people and keep my eyes open; they have become smaller, and ever become smaller:- the reason thereof is their doctrine of happiness and virtue.
For they are moderate also in virtue,- because they want comfort. With comfort, however, moderate virtue only is compatible.
