To kill ME, did they strangle you, ye singing birds of my hopes! Yea, at you, ye dearest ones, did malice ever shoot its arrows—to hit my heart!
And they hit it! Because ye were always my dearest, my possession and my possessedness: ON THAT ACCOUNT had ye to die young, and far too early!
At my most vulnerable point did they shoot the arrow—namely, at you, whose skin is like down—or more like the smile that dieth at a glance!
But this word will I say unto mine enemies: What is all manslaughter in comparison with what ye have done unto me!
Worse evil did ye do unto me than all manslaughter; the irretrievable did ye take from me:—thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies!
Slew ye not my youth’s visions and dearest marvels! My playmates took ye from me, the blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit this wreath and this curse.
This curse upon you, mine enemies! Have ye not made mine eternal short, as a tone dieth away in a cold night! Scarcely, as the twinkle of divine eyes, did it come to me—as a fleeting gleam!
Once I pledged to renounce all nasuea; then you tranformed those near and nearest me into boils of pus. Alas, where then did my noblest pledge flee?
And when I did what was hardest for me and celebrated the victory of my overcomings; then you made those who loved me cry out that I hurt them most
You always dispatched the most impudent beggards to my charity; you always crowded the icurablu shameless around my pity. Thus you wounded my virtue in its faith
In the Grave song, Zarathustra tells of how his life-denying enemies attempted to kill him by destroying his divine visions and youthful memories. (For a contextual discussion of this parable refer here). By subversion and perversion, they poisoned that which gave Zarathustra strength. Our cultural enemies, with their culture of critique — their frightening, tickling, and biting — their inversion of healthy instincts, have attempted to do likewise.
Perhaps someday, like Zarathustra, we may conclude:
How did I bear it? How did I overturn and overcome such wounds? How did my soul rise again from these graves?
Yet, there is something invulnerable, unburiable in me, something that explodes boulders: it is called my will. Silently and unchanged it strides through the years.
…Hail to you, my will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections —
—Thus Spoke Zarathrusta, Book 2, The Grave Song