With a sword of uncertainty and bitter resolve I witness Zarathustra’s irrelevance. In celebration of my 30th year I thought it fitting to open a text which alleges to present the fruits of ten years atop the proverbial mountain. On the whole, perhaps because of a diamond-precision foul mood, I found Zarathustra himself nearly as superfluous as all those whose superfluity he loves and hates. Early on he points to the coming lightning of the overman. He holds in his heart only the possibility of an adjacent possible bridge. Having received the message in many previous readings, my soul perhaps going under, I am as pleased with setting the book on fire as with consuming the text with critical rage. The best line to take from him is not a great help: “Flee into your solitude!” And some good advice about when to get married and have children (answer: not yet).