therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands."

When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but he
moved his hand as if he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude.

7.

Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market-place veiled itself in gloom.
Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror become fatigued.
Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground, absorbed
in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it became night, and a
cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then arose Zarathustra and said to his
heart:

Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made to-day! It is not a man
he hath caught, but a corpse.

Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon may be fateful
to it.

I want to teach men the sense of their existence, which is the Superman,
the lightning out of the dark cloud--man.

But still am I far from them, and my sense speaketh not unto their sense.
To men I am still something between a fool and a corpse.

Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways of Zarathustra. Come, thou cold
and stiff companion! I carry thee to the place where I shall bury thee
with mine own hands.