“Oh Zarathustra, this is the big city: here you have nothing to gain and everything to lose.
Why do you want to wade through this mud? Have pity on your feet! Spit on the city gate instead and – turn around!
Here is hell for hermit’s thoughts; here great thoughts are boiled alive and cooked till they are small.
Here all great feelings rot; here only tiny, rattlebone feelings are allowed to rattle!
Do you not already smell the slaughter houses and kitchens of the spirit? Does this town not steam with the reek of slaughtered spirit?
Do you not see the souls hanging like limp dirty rags? – And they even make newspapers out of these rags!
Do you not hear how the spirit here turned into wordplay? It vomits dirty dish-word water! – And they even make newspapers out of this dirty dish-word water.
They hurry each other and know not where to. They heat each other up and know not why. They jingle with their tin, they jangle with their gold.
They are cold and they seek warmth in distilled liquors; they are over-heated and seek coolness in frozen spirits; they are all sick and addicted to public opinion. All lusting and malignancy are at home here."
On Passing ByKitabı okuyor
8 görüntüleme
Yorum yapabilmeniz için giriş yapmanız gerekmektedir.