'Why do you slink so shyly through the twilight, Zarathustra? And what are you hiding so carefully under your cloak?
'Is it a treasure someone has given you? Or a child that has been born to you? Or are you now taking the way of thieves yourself, friend of the wicked?'
Truly, my brother! (said Zarathustra) it is a treasure that has been given me: it is a little truth that I carry.
But it is as unruly as a little child, and if I do not stop its mouth it will cry too loudly.
Today as I was going my way alone, at the hour when the sun sets, a little old woman encountered me and spoke thus to my soul:
'Zarathustra has spoken much to us women, too, but he has never spoken to us about woman.'
And I answered her: 'One should speak about women only to men.'
'Speak to me too of woman,' she said; 'I am old enough soon to forget it.'
And I obliged the little old woman and spoke to her thus:
Everything about woman is a riddle, and everything about woman has one solution: it is called pregnancy.
For the woman, the man is a means: the end is always the child. But what is the woman for the man?
The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.
Man should be trained for war and woman for the recreation of the warrior: all else is folly.
The warrior does not like fruit that is too sweet. Therefore he likes woman; even the sweetest woman is still bitter.
Woman understands children better than a man, but man is more childlike than woman.
A child is concealed in the true man: it wants to play. Come, women, discover the child in man!
Let woman be a plaything, pure and fine like a precious stone illumined by the virtues of a world that does not yet exist.
Let the flash of a star glitter in your love! Let your hope be: 'May I bear the Superman!'
Let there be bravery in your love! With your love you should attack him who inspires you with fear.
Let your honour be in your love! Woman has understood little otherwise about honour. But let this be your honour: always to love more than you are loved and never to be second in this.
Let man fear woman when she loves. Then she bears every sacrifice and every other thing she accounts valueless.
Let man fear woman when she hates: for man is at the bottom of his soul only wicked, but woman is base.
Whom does woman hate most? -- Thus spoke the iron to the magnet: 'I hate you most, because you attract me, but are not strong enough to draw me towards you.'
The man's happiness is: I will. The woman's happiness is: He will.
'Behold, now the world has become perfect!' -- thus thinks every woman when she obeys with all her love.
And woman has to obey and find a depth for her surface. Woman's nature is surface, a changeable, stormy film upon shallow waters.
But man's nature is deep, its torrent roars in subterranean caves: woman senses its power but does not comprehend it.
Then the little old woman answered me: 'Zarathustra has said many nice things, especially for those who are young enough for them.
'It is strange, Zarathustra knows little of women and yet he is right about them! Is this because with women nothing is impossible?
'And now accept as thanks a little truth! I am certainly old enough for it!
'Wrap it up and stop its mouth: otherwise it will cry too loudly, this little truth!'
'Give me your little truth, woman!' I said. And thus spoke the little old woman:
'Are you visiting women? Do not forget your whip!'
Thus spoke Zarathustra.