Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche, R. J. Hollingdale Page A

said Zarathustra. ‘You have made danger your calling, there is nothing in that to despise. Now you perish through your calling: so I will bury you with my own hands.’
    When Zarathustra had said this the dying man replied no more; but he motioned with his hand, as if he sought Zarathustra’s hand to thank him.
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    In the meanwhile, evening had come and the market square was hidden in darkness: then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror grow tired. But Zarathustra sat on the ground beside the dead man and was sunk in thought: thus he forgot the time. But at length it became night and a cold wind blew over the solitary figure. Then Zarathustra arose and said to his heart:
    Truly, Zarathustra has had a handsome catch today! He caught no man, but he did catch a corpse.
    Uncanny is human existence and still without meaning: a buffoon can be fatal to it.
    I want to teach men the meaning of their existence: which is the Superman, the lightning from the dark cloud man.
    But I am still distant from them, and my meaning does not speak to their minds. To men, I am still a cross between a fool and a corpse.
    Dark is the night, dark are Zarathustra’s ways. Come, cold and stiff companion! I am going to carry you to the place where I shall bury you with my own hands.
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    When Zarathustra had said this to his heart he loaded the corpse on to his back and set forth. He had not gone a hundred paces when a man crept up to him and whispered in his ear – and behold! it was the buffoon of the tower who spoke to him. ‘Go away from this town, O Zarathustra,’ he said. ‘Too many here hate you. The good and the just hate you and call you their enemy and despiser; the faithful of the true faith hate you, and they call you a danger to the people. It was lucky for you that they laughed at you: and truly you spoke like a buffoon. It was lucky for you that you made company with the dead dog; by so abasing yourself you have saved yourself for today. But leave this town – or tomorrow I shall jump overyou, a living man over a dead one.’ And when he had said this, the man disappeared; Zarathustra, however, went on through the dark streets.
    At the town gate the gravediggers accosted him: they shone their torch in his face, recognized Zarathustra and greatly derided him. ‘Zarathustra is carrying the dead dog away: excellent that Zarathustra has become a gravedigger! For our hands are too clean for this roast. Does Zarathustra want to rob the Devil of his morsel? Good luck then! A hearty appetite! But if the Devil is a better thief than Zarathustra! – he will steal them both, he will eat them both!’ And they laughed and put their heads together.
    Zarathustra said nothing and went his way. When he had walked for two hours past woods and swamps he had heard too much hungry howling of wolves and he grew hungry himself. So he stopped at a lonely house in which a light was burning.
    ‘Hunger has waylaid me’, said Zarathustra, ‘like a robber. My hunger has waylaid me in woods and swamps, and in the depth of night.
    ‘My hunger has astonishing moods. Often it comes to me only after mealtimes, and today it did not come at all: where has it been?’
    And with that, Zarathustra knocked on the door of the house. An old man appeared; he carried a light and asked: ‘Who comes here to me and to my uneasy sleep?’
    ‘A living man and a dead,’ said Zarathustra.’ Give me food and drink, I forgot about them during the day. He who feeds the hungry refreshes his own soul: thus speaks wisdom.’
    The old man went away, but returned at once and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. ‘This is a bad country for hungry people,’ he said. ‘That is why I live here. Animals and men come here to me, the hermit. But bid your companion eat and drink, he is wearier than you.’ Zarathustra answered: ‘My companion is dead, I shall hardly be able to persuade him.’ “That is nothing to do with me,’ said the old man morosely. ‘Whoever