[Note: the beneath excerpt, a complete segment from Thus Spoke Zarathustra, more or less encapsulates my approach to writing, or, really, the approach to writing and reading to which I aspire.]
On Reading and Writing
Of all that is written I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will experience that blood is spirit.
It is not easily possible to understand the blood of another: I hate reading idlers. Whoever knows the reader will henceforth do nothing for the reader. Another century of readers–and the spirit itself will stink.
That everyone may learn to read, in the long run corrupts not only writing but also thinking. Once the spirit was God, then he became man, and now even he becomes rabble.
Whoever writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read but to be learned by heart. In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak: but for that one must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks–and those who are addressed, tall and lofty. The air thin and pure, danger near, and the spirit full of gay sarcasm: these go well together. I want to have goblins around me, for I am courageous. Courage that puts ghosts to flight creates goblins for itself: courage wants to laugh.
I no longer feel as you do: this cloud which I see beneath me, this blackness and gravity at which I laugh–this is your thundercloud.
You look up when you feel the need for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? Whoever climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness.
Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent–thus wisdom wants us: she is a woman and loves only a warrior.
You say to me, “Life is hard to bear.” But why would you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening? Life is hard to bear; but do not act so tenderly! We are all of us fair beasts of burden, male and female asses. What do we have in common with the rosebud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on it?
True, we love life, not because we are used to living but because we are used to loving. There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
And to me too, as I am well disposed toward life, butterflies and soap bubbles and whatever among men is of their kind seem to know most about happiness. Seeing these light, foolish, delicate, mobile little souls flutter–that seduces Zarathustra to tears and songs.
I would believe only in a god who could dance. And when I saw my devil I found him serious, thorough, profound, and solemn: it was the spirit of gravity–through him all things fall.
Not by wrath does one kill but by laughter. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!
I have learned to walk: ever since, I let myself run. I have learned to fly: ever since, I do not want to be pushed before moving along.
Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.
Thus spoke Zarathustra.