Ah, there are so many things between heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreamed! And especially above the heavens: for all gods are poet-symbolisations, poet-sophistications! Truly, ever are we drawn aloft – that is, to the realm of the clouds: on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them gods and Supermen: Are not they light enough for those chairs! – all these gods and Supermen? Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual! Ah, how I am weary of the poets! When Zarathustra so spoke, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if it gazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath. I am of today and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in me that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter. I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are they all to me, and shallow seas. They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling did not reach to the bottom.