On the Olive-Mount (L) Friedrich Nietzsche

Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly hand-shaking

I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I run away from him; and when one runneth WELL, then one escapeth him!

With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm—to the sunny corner of mine olive-mount

There do I laugh at my stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he cleareth my house of flies, and quieteth many little noises

For he suffereth it not if a gnat wanteth to buzz, or even two of them; also the lanes maketh he lonesome, so that the moonlight is afraid there at night

A hard guest is he,—but I honour him, and do not worship, like the tenderlings, the pot-bellied fire-idol

Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration!—so willeth my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent, steaming, steamy fire-idols

Him whom I love, I love better in winter than in summer; better do I now mock at mine enemies, and more heartily, when winter sitteth in my house

Heartily, verily, even when I CREEP into bed—: there, still laugheth and wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my deceptive dream laugheth

I, a—creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the powerful; and if ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore am I glad even in my winter-bed

A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich one, for I am jealous of my poverty. And in winter she is most faithful unto me

With a wickedness do I begin every day: I mock at the winter with a cold bath: on that account grumbleth my stern house-mate

Also do I like to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let the heavens emerge from ashy-grey twilight