sages of your ears? Certainly the God in question went further,
very much further, in such dialogues, and was always many paces ahead of
me... Indeed, if it were allowed, I should have to give him, according
to human usage, fine ceremonious tides of lustre and merit, I should
have to extol his courage as investigator and discoverer, his fearless
honesty, truthfulness, and love of wisdom. But such a God does not know
what to do with all that respectable trumpery and pomp. "Keep that," he
would say, "for thyself and those like thee, and whoever else require
it! I--have no reason to cover my nakedness!" One suspects that this
kind of divinity and philosopher perhaps lacks shame?--He once said:
"Under certain circumstances I love mankind"--and referred thereby to
Ariadne, who was present; "in my opinion man is an agreeable, brave,
inventive animal, that has not his equal upon earth, he makes his way
even through all labyrinths. I like man, and often think how I can
still further advance him, and make him stronger, more evil, and more
profound."--"Stronger, more evil, and more profound?" I asked in horror.
"Yes," he said again, "stronger, more evil, and more profound; also more
beautiful"--and thereby the tempter-god smiled with his halcyon smile,
as though he had just paid some charming compliment. One here sees at
once that it is not only shame that this divinity lacks;--and in general
there are good grounds for supposing that in some things the Gods could
all of them come to us men for instruction. We men are--more human.--

296. Alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not
long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns
and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh--and now? You
have already doffed your novelty, and some of you, I fear, are ready
to become truths, so immortal do they look, so pathetically honest, so
tedious! And was it ever otherwise? What then do we write and paint,
we mandarins with Chinese brush, we immortalisers of things which LEND
themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of painting? Alas, only
that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odour! Alas,
only exhausted and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! Alas,
only birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let themselves be
captured with the hand--with OUR hand! We immortalize what cannot live
and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow! An