Write with Blood

Of everything ever written, Zarathustra says, love only what was written in blood. It sounds violent; Martin takes it somewhere practical. Your reading life is finite, so give it to writers who paid for their pages, and he shows you how he learned that, from a Bukowski memorial covering a wall in Copenhagen back to the twice-weekly library trips of a lonely, bookish childhood. The stranger turn comes next: what all that blood buys, in this speech, is lightness. Nietzsche wanted his readers laughing. Martin's best proof involves his ringtone, his mother, and a dancer who kept landing in jail.