I don’t know how it happened, how from the shaky, nervous, intimidated little girl emerged someone so confident, so convincing, that even the professor was mimed by her fast flowing words.
I don’t know who she was, that bright, snappy, articulate, young woman who conquered the classroom with the tip of her eloquent tongue and snatched the attention of everyone with her subtle seduction. That evil cunning little orator who smashed the expectations of her audience and gave them much more of what was anticipated and asked. That stranger from inside my head, a vile selfish monster eating up every good intention in my heart to pave the way for the Superhuman to soar, to overcome.
She is not me. She is laughing.
Courage wants to laugh.
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 fight 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.
On Reading and Writing, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (1883)