wanteth pity. Perhaps he loveth in thee the unmoved eye, and the look of eternity.
Let thy pity for thy friend be hid under a hard shell; thou shalt bite out a tooth upon it. Thus will it have delicacy and sweetness.
Art thou pure air and solitude and bread and medicine to thy friend? Many a one cannot loosen his own fetters, but is nevertheless his friend's emancipator.
Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be a friend. Art thou a tyrant? Then thou canst not have friends.
Far too long have slave and tyrant been concealed in woman. On that account woman is not yet capable of friendship: she knows only love.
In woman's love there is injustice and blindness to all she does not love. And even in woman's conscious love, there is still always attack and lightning and night, along with the light.
As yet woman is not capable of friendship: women are still cats and birds. Or at best, cows.
As yet woman is not capable of friendship. But tell me, you men, who of you is capable of friendship?
Oh! your poverty, you men, and your sparingness of soul! As much as you give to your friend, I will give even to my enemy, and will not become poorer for it.
There is comradeship: may there be friendship!
Thus spoke Zarathustra.