NIETZSCHE THE GREAT MARTYR DAWN. A fine gentle drizzle was falling. My face glued to the carriage window, I could see Paris passing in back of the rain’s diaphanous net—passing, laughing amidst its tears, and welcoming me. I saw the bridges go by, and the multistoried soot-covered buildings, the parks and churches, the stark, leafless chestnut trees, the people walking hurriedly along the wide gleaming streets. Through the rain’s hanging filaments I could see all of Paris’s charmingly playful face, smiling and shining dimly, just as we glimpse the weaver behind the threads of the loom. I asked myself what could be in store for me in this long-coveted city, and I took man’s soul to task for its inability to predict the future, not even one hour in advance. In order to see ahead could the soul do nothing but wait for the unborn to be born? Was it drab and infirm, just like the flesh? I wondered if I would find in this great city what I was looking for. But what was I looking for?
