On this perfect day, when everything is ripening, and not only the
grapes are getting brown, a ray of sunshine has fallen on my life: I
looked behind me, I looked before me, and never have I seen so many
good things all at once. Not in vain have I buried my four-and-fortieth
year to-day; I had the _right_ to bury it--that in it which still
had life, has been saved and is immortal. The first book of the
_Transvaluation of all Values, The Songs of Zarathustra, The Twilight
of the Idols,_ my attempt, to philosophise with the hammer--all these
things are the gift of this year, and even of its last quarter. _How
could I help being thankful to the whole of my life?_
That is why I am now going to tell myself the story of my life.