" These smoky, room-temperature, used-up, wilted, fretful souls —how could their grudge endure my happiness? Hence I show them only the ice and the winter of my peaks—and not that my mountain still winds all the belts of the sun round itself. They hear only my winter winds whistling—and not that I also cross warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south winds. They still have pity on my accidents; but my word says, "Let accidents come to me, they are innocent as little children. "

― Friedrich Nietzsche , Thus Spoke Zarathustra