The existence of a god cannot be proven or disproven (quotation battle)

On Poets"Since I have come to know he body better," Zarathustra said to one of his disciples, "the spirit is to me only quasi-spirit; and all that is 'permanent' is also more parable.""I have heard you say that once before," the disciple replied; "and at that time you added, 'But the poets lie too much.' Why did you say that the poets lie too much?""Why?" said Zarathustra. "You ask, why? I am not one of those whom one may ask about their why. Is my experience but of yesterday? It was long ago that I experienced the reasons for my opinions. Would I not have to be a barrel of memory if I wanted to carry my reasons around with me? It is already too much for me to remember my own opinions; and many a bird flies away. And now and then I also find a stray in my dovecot that is strange to me and trembles when I place my hand on it. But what was it Zarathustra once said to you? That the poets lie too much? But Zarathustra too is a poet. Do you now believe he spoke the truth here? Why do you believe that?"The disciple answered, "I believe in Zarathustra." But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled."Faith does not make me blessed," he said, "especially not faith in me. But suppose somebody said in all seriousness, the poets lie too much: he would be right; e do lie too much. We also know too little and we are bad learners; so we simply have to lie. And who among us poets has not adultered his wine? Many a poisonous hodgepodge has been contrived in our cellars; much that s indescribable was accomplished there. And because we know so little, the poor in spirit please us heartily, particularly when they are young females. And we are covetous even of those things which the old females tell eah other in the evening. That is what we call the Eternal-Feminine in us. And, as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, buried for those who learn something, we believe in the people and their 'wisdom.'"This, however, all poets believe: that whoever pricks up his ears as he lies in the grass or on lonely sloped will find out something about those things that are between heaven and earth. And when they feel tender sentiments stirring, the poets always fancy that nature herself is in love with them; and that the is creeping to their ears to tell them secrets and amorous flatteries; and one of this they brag and boast before all mortals."Alas, there are so many things between heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreames."And especially above the heavans: for all gods are poets' parables, poets' prevarications. Verily, it always lifts us higher--specificaly, to the relm of the clouds: upon these we plce motley bastards and call them gods and overmen. For they are just light enough for these chairs--all gods and overmen. Ah, how weary I am of all the imperfection which must at all costs become event! Ah, how weary I am of poets!"When Zarathustrs spoke thus, his disciple was angry wih him, but he remained silent. And Zarathustra too remained silent; and his eye had turned inward as if he were gazing into vast distances. At last he sighed and drew a deap breath."I am of today and before," he said then, "but there is something in me that is of tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and time to come. I have grown weary of the poets, the old and the new: superficial they all seem to me, and shallow seas. Their thoughts have not penetrated deeply enough; therefore their feeelings did not touvh bottom."Some lust and some boredom: that has so far been their best reflection. All their harp jingling is to me the breathing and flitting of ghosts; what have they ever known of the fervor of tones?"Nor are they clean enough for me: they all muddy their waters to make them appear deep. And they like to pose as reconcilers: but mediators and mixers they remain for me, and half-and-half and unclean."Also, I cast my net into their seas and wanted to catch good fish; but I always pulled up the head of some old god. Thus the sea gave him who was hungry a stone. And they themselves may well have come from the sea. Certainly, pearls are found in them: they are that much more siliar to hard shellfish. And instead of a soul I oten found salted slime in them."From the sea they learned even its vanity: is not the sea the peacock of peacocks? Even before the ugliest buffalo it still spreads out its tail, and never wearies of its lace fan of silver and silk. Sulky, the buffalo stares back, close to the sand in his soul, closer still to the thicket, closest of all to the swamp. What are beauty and sea and peacock's finery to him? This parable I offer the poets. Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks and a sea of vanity! THe spirit of the poet craves spectators--even if only buffaloes."But I have grown weary of the spirit; and I forsee that it will grow weary of itself. I have alreadt seen the poets changed, with their glances turned back on themselves. I saw ascetics of the spirit apporach; they grew out of the poets."Thus Spake ZarathustraFrom Thus Spoke Zarathustra: Second Partp.238 The Portable Nietzsch 1954 edition