wreck no longer frightens us, the phantom vessels are all sunk in the luminous depths of the sea. We have learned the art of war without the blare of trumpets, without shouts of command, without the shedding of blood; yet our blood boils within us, and of this we shall die. We may well return to Nietzsche.
Others, forgers and traitors, have had their say. Are we rid of you now, you parlor wildcats, you little Neros drunk with undigested egotism, you hypocritical scoundrels who interpreted the winged words of Zarathustra after the fashion of butchers and harem-keepers? And you too, worthy doctors and illustrious professors, have you finished your petty post-mortems on the body of the hero who awaits his resurrection? Have you found all the sources, have you made all the comparisons, have you registered all the subtle interpretations, all the weighty objections? Posthumous spies have gathered his souvenirs; faithless correspondents have sold his letters for the sound of silver; the Archive is established; the catalogue is complete; the bibliography is ready; his poor Polish name has found its place in every “author index.” Your turn is past.
Our turn has come: the turn of those who loved him, scorned him, hated him, sought to forget him, were yet faithful to him, embraced him even amid scorn, stood by his side when he had been abandoned. Our turn has come at last.
