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2. Then did Life answer me thus, and kept thereby her fine ears closed: “O Zarathustra! Crack not so terribly with thy whip! Thou knowest surely that noise killeth thought,—and just now there came to me such delicate thoughts. We are both of us genuine ne’er-do-wells and ne’er-do-ills. Beyond good and evil found we our island and our green meadow—we two alone! Therefore must we be friendly to each other! And even should we not love each other from the bottom of our hearts,—must we then have a grudge against each other if we do not love each other perfectly? And that I am friendly to thee, and often too friendly, that knowest thou: and the reason is that I am envious of thy Wisdom. Ah, this mad old fool, Wisdom! If thy Wisdom should one day run away from thee, ah! then would also my love run away from thee quickly.”— Thereupon did Life look thoughtfully behind and around, and said softly: “O Zarathustra, thou art not faithful enough to me! Thou lovest me not nearly so much as thou sayest; I know thou thinkest of soon leaving me. There is an old heavy, heavy, booming-clock: it boometh by night up to thy cave:— —When thou hearest this clock strike the hours at midnight, then thinkest thou between one and twelve thereon— —Thou thinkest thereon, O Zarathustra, I know it—of soon leaving me!”— “Yea,” answered I, hesitatingly, “but thou knowest it also”—And I said something into her ear, in amongst her confused, yellow, foolish tresses. “Thou KNOWEST that, O Zarathustra? That knoweth no one—” And we gazed at each other, and looked at the green meadow o’er which the cool evening was just passing, and we wept together.—Then, however, was Life dearer unto me than all my Wisdom had ever been.— Thus spake Zarathustra.