THREE metamorphoses of the spirit do I designate to you: how the spirit
becometh a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last a child. Many
heavy things are there for the spirit, the strong load-bearing spirit in
which reverence dwelleth: for the heavy and the heaviest longeth its strength.
What is heavy? so asketh the load-bearing spirit; then kneeleth it down
like the camel, and wanteth to be well laden. What is the heaviest thing,
ye heroes? asketh the load-bearing spirit, that I may take it upon me and
rejoice in my strength. Is it not this: To humiliate oneself in order to
mortify one's pride? To exhibit one's folly in order to mock at one's wisdom?
Or is it this: To desert our cause when it celebrateth its triumph? To
ascend high mountains to tempt the tempter? Or is it this: To feed on the
acorns and grass of knowledge, and for the sake of truth to suffer hunger
of soul? Or is it this: To be sick and dismiss comforters, and make friends
of the deaf, who never hear thy requests? Or is it this: To go into foul
water when it is the water of truth, and not disclaim cold frogs and hot
toads? Or is it this: To love those who despise us, and give one's hand
to the phantom when it is going to frighten us? All these heaviest things
the load-bearing spirit taketh upon itself: and like the camel, which,
when laden, hasteneth into the wilderness, so hasteneth the spirit into
its wilderness. But in the loneliest wilderness happeneth the second metamorphosis:
here the spirit becometh a lion; freedom will it capture, and lordship
in its own wilderness. Its last Lord it here seeketh: hostile will it be
to him, and to its last God; for victory will it struggle with the great
dragon. What is the great dragon which the spirit is no longer inclined
to call Lord and God? "Thou-shalt," is the great dragon called. But the
spirit of the lion saith, "I will." "Thou-shalt," lieth in its path, sparkling
with gold- a scale-covered beast; and on every scale glittereth golden,
"Thou shalt!" The values of a thousand years glitter on those scales, and
thus speaketh the mightiest of all dragons: "All the values of things-
glitter on me. All values have already been created, and all created values-
do I represent. Verily, there shall be no 'I will' any more. Thus speaketh
the dragon. My brethren, wherefore is there need of the lion in the spirit?
Why sufficeth not the beast of burden, which renounceth and is reverent?
To create new values- that, even the lion cannot yet accomplish: but to
create itself freedom for new creating- that can the might of the lion
do. To create itself freedom, and give a holy Nay even unto duty: for that,
my brethren, there is need of the lion. To assume the ride to new values-
that is the most formidable assumption for a load-bearing and reverent
spirit. Verily, unto such a spirit it is preying, and the work of a beast
of prey. As its holiest, it once loved "Thou-shalt": now is it forced to
find illusion and arbitrariness even in the holiest things, that it may
capture freedom from its love: the lion is needed for this capture. But
tell me, my brethren, what the child can do, which even the lion could
not do? Why hath the preying lion still to become a child? Innocence is
the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel,
a first movement, a holy Yea. Aye, for the game of creating, my brethren,
there is needed a holy Yea unto life: its own will, willeth now the spirit;
his own world winneth the world's outcast. Three metamorphoses of the spirit
have I designated to you: how the spirit became a camel, the camel a lion,
and the lion at last a child.- Thus spake Zarathustra. And at that time
he abode in the town which is called The Pied Cow.
2. The Academic Chairs of Virtue
PEOPLE commended unto Zarathustra a wise man, as one who could discourse
well about sleep and virtue: greatly was he honoured and rewarded for it,
and all the youths sat before his chair. To him went Zarathustra, and sat
among the youths before his chair. And thus spake the wise man: Respect
and modesty in presence of sleep! That is the first thing! And to go out
of the way of all who sleep badly and keep awake at night! Modest is even
the thief in presence of sleep: he always stealeth softly through the night.
Immodest, however, is the night-watchman; immodestly he carrieth his horn.
No small art is it to sleep: it is necessary for that purpose to keep awake
all day. Ten times a day must thou overcome thyself: that causeth wholesome
weariness, and is poppy to the soul. Ten times must thou reconcile again
with thyself; for overcoming is bitterness, and badly sleep the unreconciled.
Ten truths must thou find during the day; otherwise wilt thou seek truth
during the night, and thy soul will have been hungry. Ten times must thou
laugh during the day, and be cheerful; otherwise thy stomach, the father
of affliction, will disturb thee in the night. Few people know it, but
one must have all the virtues in order to sleep well. Shall I bear false
witness? Shall I commit adultery? Shall I covet my neighbour's maidservant?
All that would ill accord with good sleep. And even if one have all the
virtues, there is still one thing needful: to send the virtues themselves
to sleep at the right time. That they may not quarrel with one another,
the good females! And about thee, thou unhappy one! Peace with God and
thy neighbour: so desireth good sleep. And peace also with thy neighbour's
devil! Otherwise it will haunt thee in the night. Honour to the government,
and obedience, and also to the crooked government! So desireth good sleep.
How can I help it, if power liketh to walk on crooked legs? He who leadeth
his sheep to the greenest pasture, shall always be for me the best shepherd:
so doth it accord with good sleep. Many honours I want not, nor great treasures:
they excite the spleen. But it is bad sleeping without a good name and
a little treasure. A small company is more welcome to me than a bad one:
but they must come and go at the right time. So doth it accord with good
sleep. Well, also, do the poor in spirit please me: they promote sleep.
Blessed are they, especially if one always give in to them. Thus passeth
the day unto the virtuous. When night cometh, then take I good care not
to summon sleep. It disliketh to be summoned- sleep, the lord of the virtues!
But I think of what I have done and thought during the day. Thus ruminating,
patient as a cow, I ask myself: What were thy ten overcomings? And what
were the ten reconciliations, and the ten truths, and the ten laughters
with which my heart enjoyed itself? Thus pondering, and cradled by forty
thoughts, it overtaketh me all at once- sleep, the unsummoned, the lord
of the virtues. Sleep tappeth on mine eye, and it turneth heavy. Sleep
toucheth my mouth, and it remaineth open. Verily, on soft soles doth it
come to me, the dearest of thieves, and stealeth from me my thoughts: stupid
do I then stand, like this academic chair. But not much longer do I then
stand: I already lie.- When Zarathustra heard the wise man thus speak,
he laughed in his heart: for thereby had a light dawned upon him. And thus
spake he to his heart: A fool seemeth this wise man with his forty thoughts:
but I believe he knoweth well how to sleep. Happy even is he who liveth
near this wise man! Such sleep is contagious- even through a thick wall
it is contagious. A magic resideth even in his academic chair. And not
in vain did the youths sit before the preacher of virtue. His wisdom is
to keep awake in order to sleep well. And verily, if life had no sense,
and had I to choose nonsense, this would be the desirablest nonsense for
me also. Now know I well what people sought formerly above all else when
they sought teachers of virtue. Good sleep they sought for themselves,
and poppy-head virtues to promote it! To all those belauded sages of the
academic chairs, wisdom was sleep without dreams: they knew no higher significance
of life. Even at present, to be sure, there are some like this preacher
of virtue, and not always so honourable: but their time is past. And not
much longer do they stand: there they already lie. Blessed are those drowsy
ones: for they shall soon nod to sleep.- Thus spake Zarathustra. 3. Backworldsmen
ONCE on a time, Zarathustra also cast his fancy beyond man, like all backworldsmen.
The work of a suffering and tortured God, did the world then seem to me.
The dream- and diction- of a God, did the world then seem to me; coloured
vapours before the eyes of a divinely dissatisfied one. Good and evil,
and joy and woe, and I and thou- coloured vapours did they seem to me before
creative eyes. The creator wished to look away from himself,- thereupon
he created the world. Intoxicating joy is it for the sufferer to look away
from his suffering and forget himself. Intoxicating joy and self-forgetting,
did the world once seem to me. This world, the eternally imperfect, an
eternal contradiction's image and imperfect image- an intoxicating joy
to its imperfect creator:- thus did the world once seem to me. Thus, once
on a time, did I also cast my fancy beyond man, like all backworldsmen.
Beyond man, forsooth? Ah, ye brethren, that God whom I created was human
work and human madness, like all the gods! A man was he, and only a poor
fragment of a man and ego. Out of mine own ashes and glow it came unto
me, that phantom. And verily, it came not unto me from the beyond! What
happened, my brethren? I surpassed myself, the suffering one; I carried
mine own ashes to the mountain; a brighter flame I contrived for myself.
And lo! Thereupon the phantom withdrew from me! To me the convalescent
would it now be suffering and torment to believe in such phantoms: suffering
would it now be to me, and humiliation. Thus speak I to backworldsmen.
Suffering was it, and impotence- that created all backworlds; and the short
madness of happiness, which only the greatest sufferer experienceth. Weariness,
which seeketh to get to the ultimate with one leap, with a death-leap;
a poor ignorant weariness, unwilling even to will any longer: that created
all gods and backworlds. Believe me, my brethren! It was the body which
despaired of the body- it groped with the fingers of the infatuated spirit
at the ultimate walls. Believe me, my brethren! It was the body which despaired
of the earth- it heard the bowels of existence speaking unto it. And then
it sought to get through the ultimate walls with its head- and not with
its head only- into "the other world." But that "other world" is well concealed
from man, that dehumanised, inhuman world, which is a celestial naught;
and the bowels of existence do not speak unto man, except as man. Verily,
it is difficult to prove all being, and hard to make it speak. Tell me,
ye brethren, is not the strangest of all things best proved? Yea, this
ego, with its contradiction and perplexity, speaketh most uprightly of
its being- this creating, willing, evaluing ego, which is the measure and
value of things. And this most upright existence, the ego- it speaketh
of the body, and still implieth the body, even when it museth and raveth
and fluttereth with broken wings. Always more uprightly learneth it to
speak, the ego; and the more it learneth, the more doth it find titles,
and honours for the body and the earth. A new pride taught me mine ego,
and that teach I unto men: no longer to thrust one's head into the sand
of celestial things, but to carry it freely, a terrestrial head, which
giveth meaning to the earth! A new will teach I unto men: to choose that
path which man hath followed blindly, and to approve of it- and no longer
to slink aside from it, like the sick and perishing! The sick and perishing-
it was they who despised the body and the earth, and invented the heavenly
world, and the redeeming blood-drops; but even those sweet and sad poisons
they borrowed from the body and the earth! From their misery they sought
escape, and the stars were too remote for them. Then they sighed: "O that
there were heavenly paths by which to steal into another existence and
into happiness!" Then they contrived for themselves their bypaths and bloody
draughts! Beyond the sphere of their body and this earth they now fancied
themselves transported, these ungrateful ones. But to what did they owe
the convulsion and rapture of their transport? To their body and this earth.
Gentle is Zarathustra to the sickly. Verily, he is not indignant at their
modes of consolation and ingratitude. May they become convalescents and
overcomers, and create higher bodies for themselves! Neither is Zarathustra
indignant at a convalescent who looketh tenderly on his delusions, and
at midnight stealeth round the grave of his God; but sickness and a sick
frame remain even in his tears. Many sickly ones have there always been
among those who muse, and languish for God; violently they hate the discerning
ones, and the latest of virtues, which is uprightness. Backward they always
gaze toward dark ages: then, indeed, were delusion and faith something
different. Raving of the reason was likeness to God, and doubt was sin.
Too well do I know those godlike ones: they insist on being believed in,
and that doubt is sin. Too well, also, do I know what they themselves most
believe in. Verily, not in backworlds and redeeming blood-drops: but in
the body do they also believe most; and their own body is for them the
thing-in-itself. But it is a sickly thing to them, and gladly would they
get out of their skin. Therefore hearken they to the preachers of death,
and themselves preach backworlds. Hearken rather, my brethren, to the voice
of the healthy body; it is a more upright and pure voice. More uprightly
and purely speaketh the healthy body, perfect and square-built; and it
speaketh of the meaning of the earth.- Thus spake Zarathustra. 4. The Despisers
of the Body TO THE despisers of the body will I speak my word. I wish them
neither to learn afresh, nor teach anew, but only to bid farewell to their
own bodies,- and thus be dumb. "Body am I, and soul"- so saith the child.
And why should one not speak like children? But the awakened one, the knowing
one, saith: "Body am I entirely, and nothing more; and soul is only the
name of something in the body." The body is a big sagacity, a plurality
with one sense, a war and a peace, a flock and a shepherd. An instrument
of thy body is also thy little sagacity, my brother, which thou callest
"spirit"- a little instrument and plaything of thy big sagacity. "Ego,"
sayest thou, and art proud of that word. But the greater thing- in which
thou art unwilling to believe- is thy body with its big sagacity; it saith
not "ego," but doeth it. What the sense feeleth, what the spirit discerneth,
hath never its end in itself. But sense and spirit would fain persuade
thee that they are the end of all things: so vain are they. Instruments
and playthings are sense and spirit: behind them there is still the Self.
The Self seeketh with the eyes of the senses, it hearkeneth also with the
ears of the spirit. Ever hearkeneth the Self, and seeketh; it compareth,
mastereth, conquereth, and destroyeth. It ruleth, and is also the ego's
ruler. Behind thy thoughts and feelings, my brother, there is a mighty
lord, an unknown sage- it is called Self; it dwelleth in thy body, it is
thy body. There is more sagacity in thy body than in thy best wisdom. And
who then knoweth why thy body requireth just thy best wisdom? Thy Self
laugheth at thine ego, and its proud prancings. "What are these prancings
and flights of thought unto me?" it saith to itself. "A by-way to my purpose.
I am the leading-string of the ego, and the prompter of its notions." The
Self saith unto the ego: "Feel pain!" And thereupon it suffereth, and thinketh
how it may put an end thereto- and for that very purpose it is meant to
think. The Self saith unto the ego: "Feel pleasure!" Thereupon it rejoiceth,
and thinketh how it may ofttimes rejoice- and for that very purpose it
is meant to think. To the despisers of the body will I speak a word. That
they despise is caused by their esteem. What is it that created esteeming
and despising and worth and will? The creating Self created for itself
esteeming and despising, it created for itself joy and woe. The creating
body created for itself spirit, as a hand to its will. Even in your folly
and despising ye each serve your Self, ye despisers of the body. I tell
you, your very Self wanteth to die, and turneth away from life. No longer
can your Self do that which it desireth most:- create beyond itself. That
is what it desireth most; that is all its fervour. But it is now too late
to do so:- so your Self wisheth to succumb, ye despisers of the body. To
succumb- so wisheth your Self; and therefore have ye become despisers of
the body. For ye can no longer create beyond yourselves. And therefore
are ye now angry with life and with the earth. And unconscious envy is
in the sidelong look of your contempt. I go not your way, ye despisers
of the body! Ye are no bridges for me to the Superman!- Thus spake Zarathustra.
5. Joys and Passions MY BROTHER, when thou hast a virtue, and it is thine
own virtue, thou hast it in common with no one. To be sure, thou wouldst
call it by name and caress it; thou wouldst pull its ears and amuse thyself
with it. And lo! Then hast thou its name in common with the people, and
hast become one of the people and the herd with thy virtue! Better for
thee to say: "Ineffable is it, and nameless, that which is pain and sweetness
to my soul, and also the hunger of my bowels." Let thy virtue be too high
for the familiarity of names, and if thou must speak of it, be not ashamed
to stammer about it. Thus speak and stammer: "That is my good, that do
I love, thus doth it please me entirely, thus only do I desire the good.
Not as the law of a God do I desire it, not as a human law or a human need
do I desire it; it is not to be a guide-post for me to superearths and
paradises. An earthly virtue is it which I love: little prudence is therein,
and the least everyday wisdom. But that bird built its nest beside me:
therefore, I love and cherish it- now sitteth it beside me on its golden
eggs." Thus shouldst thou stammer, and praise thy virtue. Once hadst thou
passions and calledst them evil. But now hast thou only thy virtues: they
grew out of thy passions. Thou implantedst thy highest aim into the heart
of those passions: then became they thy virtues and joys. And though thou
wert of the race of the hot-tempered, or of the voluptuous, or of the fanatical,
or the vindictive; All thy passions in the end became virtues, and all
thy devils angels. Once hadst thou wild dogs in thy cellar: but they changed
at last into birds and charming songstresses. Out of thy poisons brewedst
thou balsam for thyself; thy cow, affliction, milkedst thou- now drinketh
thou the sweet milk of her udder. And nothing evil groweth in thee any
longer, unless it be the evil that groweth out of the conflict of thy virtues.
My brother, if thou be fortunate, then wilt thou have one virtue and no
more: thus goest thou easier over the bridge. Illustrious is it to have
many virtues, but a hard lot; and many a one hath gone into the wilderness
and killed himself, because he was weary of being the battle and battlefield
of virtues. My brother, are war and battle evil? Necessary, however, is
the evil; necessary are the envy and the distrust and the back-biting among
the virtues. Lo! how each of thy virtues is covetous of the highest place;
it wanteth thy whole spirit to be its herald, it wanteth thy whole power,
in wrath, hatred, and love. Jealous is every virtue of the others, and
a dreadful thing is jealousy. Even virtues may succumb by jealousy. He
whom the flame of jealousy encompasseth, turneth at last, like the scorpion,
the poisoned sting against himself. Ah! my brother, hast thou never seen
a virtue backbite and stab itself? Man is something that hath to be surpassed:
and therefore shalt thou love thy virtues,- for thou wilt succumb by them.-
Thus spake Zarathustra. 6. The Pale Criminal YE DO not mean to slay, ye
judges and sacrificers, until the animal hath bowed its head? Lo! the pale
criminal hath bowed his head: out of his eye speaketh the great contempt.
"Mine ego is something which is to be surpassed: mine ego is to me the
great contempt of man": so speaketh it out of that eye. When he judged
himself- that was his supreme moment; let not the exalted one relapse again
into his low estate! There is no salvation for him who thus suffereth from
himself, unless it be speedy death. Your slaying, ye judges, shall be pity,
and not revenge; and in that ye slay, see to it that ye yourselves justify
life! It is not enough that ye should reconcile with him whom ye slay.
Let your sorrow be love to the Superman: thus will ye justify your own
survival! "Enemy" shall ye say but not "villain," "invalid" shall ye say
but not "wretch," "fool" shall ye say but not "sinner." And thou, red judge,
if thou would say audibly all thou hast done in thought, then would every
one cry: "Away with the nastiness and the virulent reptile!" But one thing
is the thought, another thing is the deed, and another thing is the idea
of the deed. The wheel of causality doth not roll between them. An idea
made this pale man pale. Adequate was he for his deed when he did it, but
the idea of it, he could not endure when it was done. Evermore did he now
see himself as the doer of one deed. Madness, I call this: the exception
reversed itself to the rule in him. The streak of chalk bewitcheth the
hen; the stroke he struck bewitched his weak reason. Madness after the
deed, I call this. Hearken, ye judges! There is another madness besides,
and it is before the deed. Ah! ye have not gone deep enough into this soul!
Thus speaketh the red judge: "Why did this criminal commit murder? He meant
to rob." I tell you, however, that his soul wanted blood, not booty: he
thirsted for the happiness of the knife! But his weak reason understood
not this madness, and it persuaded him. "What matter about blood!" it said;
"wishest thou not, at least, to make booty thereby? Or take revenge?" And
he hearkened unto his weak reason: like lead lay its words upon him- thereupon
he robbed when he murdered. He did not mean to be ashamed of his madness.
And now once more lieth the lead of his guilt upon him, and once more is
his weak reason so benumbed, so paralysed, and so dull. Could he only shake
his head, then would his burden roll off; but who shaketh that head? What
is this man? A mass of diseases that reach out into the world through the
spirit; there they want to get their prey. What is this man? A coil of
wild serpents that are seldom at peace among themselves- so they go forth
apart and seek prey in the world. Look at that poor body! What it suffered
and craved, the poor soul interpreted to itself- it interpreted it as murderous
desire, and eagerness for the happiness of the knife. Him who now turneth
sick, the evil overtaketh which is now the evil: he seeketh to cause pain
with that which causeth him pain. But there have been other ages, and another
evil and good. Once was doubt evil, and the will to Self. Then the invalid
became a heretic or sorcerer; as heretic or sorcerer he suffered, and sought
to cause suffering. But this will not enter your ears; it hurteth your
good people, ye tell me. But what doth it matter to me about your good
people! Many things in your good people cause me disgust, and verily, not
their evil. I would that they had a madness by which they succumbed, like
this pale criminal! Verily, I would that their madness were called truth,
or fidelity, or justice: but they have their virtue in order to live long,
and in wretched self-complacency. I am a railing alongside the torrent;
whoever is able to grasp me may grasp me! Your crutch, however, I am not.-
Thus spake Zarathustra. 7. Reading and Writing OF ALL that is written,
I love only what a person hath written with his blood. Write with blood,
and thou wilt find that blood is spirit. It is no easy task to understand
unfamiliar blood; I hate the reading idlers. He who knoweth the reader,
doeth nothing more for the reader. Another century of readers- and spirit
itself will stink. Every one being allowed to learn to read, ruineth in
the long run not only writing but also thinking. Once spirit was God, then
it became man, and now it even becometh populace. He that writeth in blood
and proverbs doth not want to be read, but learnt by heart. In the mountains
the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route thou must have
long legs. Proverbs should be peaks, and those spoken to should be big
and tall. The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full
of a joyful wickedness: thus are things well matched. I want to have goblins
about me, for I am courageous. The courage which scareth away ghosts, createth
for itself goblins- it wanteth to laugh. I no longer feel in common with
you; the very cloud which I see beneath me, the blackness and heaviness
at which I laugh- that is your thunder-cloud. Ye look aloft when ye long
for exaltation; and I look downward because I am exalted. Who among you
can at the same time laugh and be exalted? He who climbeth on the highest
mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays and tragic realities. Courageous,
unconcerned, scornful, coercive- so wisdom wisheth us; she is a woman,
and ever loveth only a warrior. Ye tell me, "Life is hard to bear." But
for what purpose should ye have your pride in the morning and your resignation
in the evening? Life is hard to bear: but do not affect to be so delicate!
We are all of us fine sumpter asses and she-asses. What have we in common
with the rose-bud, which trembleth because a drop of dew hath formed upon
it? It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because
we are wont to love. There is always some madness in love. But there is
always, also, some method in madness. And to me also, who appreciate life,
the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them amongst us,
seem most to enjoy happiness. To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively
little sprites flit about- that moveth Zarathustra to tears and songs.
I should only believe in a God that would know how to dance. And when I
saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the
spirit of gravity- through him all things fall. Not by wrath, but by laughter,
do we slay. Come, let us slay the spirit of gravity! I learned to walk;
since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not
need pushing in order to move from a spot. Now am I light, now do I fly;
now do I see myself under myself. Now there danceth a God in me.- Thus
spake Zarathustra. 8. The Tree on the Hill ZARATHUSTRA's eye had perceived
that a certain youth avoided him. And as he walked alone one evening over
the hills surrounding the town called "The Pied Cow," behold, there found
he the youth sitting leaning against a tree, and gazing with wearied look
into the valley. Zarathustra thereupon laid hold of the tree beside which
the youth sat, and spake thus: "If I wished to shake this tree with my
hands, I should not be able to do so. But the wind, which we see not, troubleth
and bendeth it as it listeth. We are sorest bent and troubled by invisible
hands." Thereupon the youth arose disconcerted, and said: "I hear Zarathustra,
and just now was I thinking of him!" Zarathustra answered: "Why art thou
frightened on that account?- But it is the same with man as with the tree.
The more he seeketh to rise into the height and light, the more vigorously
do his roots struggle earthward, downward, into the dark and deep- into
the evil." "Yea, into the evil!" cried the youth. "How is it possible that
thou hast discovered my soul?" Zarathustra smiled, and said: "Many a soul
one will never discover, unless one first invent it." "Yea, into the evil!"
cried the youth once more. "Thou saidst the truth, Zarathustra. I trust
myself no longer since I sought to rise into the height, and nobody trusteth
me any longer; how doth that happen? I change too quickly: my to-day refuteth
my yesterday. I often overleap the steps when I clamber; for so doing,
none of the steps pardons me. When aloft, I find myself always alone. No
one speaketh unto me; the frost of solitude maketh me tremble. What do
I seek on the height? My contempt and my longing increase together; the
higher I clamber, the more do I despise him who clambereth. What doth he
seek on the height? How ashamed I am of my clambering and stumbling! How
I mock at my violent panting! How I hate him who flieth! How tired I am
on the height!" Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra contemplated
the tree beside which they stood, and spake thus: "This tree standeth lonely
here on the hills; it hath grown up high above man and beast. And if it
wanted to speak, it would have none who could understand it: so high hath
it grown. Now it waiteth and waiteth,- for what doth it wait? It dwelleth
too close to the seat of the clouds; it waiteth perhaps for the first lightning?"
When Zarathustra had said this, the youth called out with violent gestures:
"Yea, Zarathustra, thou speakest the truth. My destruction I longed for,
when I desired to be on the height, and thou art the lightning for which
I waited! Lo! what have I been since thou hast appeared amongst us? It
is mine envy of thee that hath destroyed me!"- Thus spake the youth, and
wept bitterly. Zarathustra, however, put his arm about him, and led the
youth away with him. And when they had walked a while together, Zarathustra
began to speak thus: It rendeth my heart. Better than thy words express
it, thine eyes tell me all thy danger. As yet thou art not free; thou still
seekest freedom. Too unslept hath thy seeking made thee, and too wakeful.
On the open height wouldst thou be; for the stars thirsteth thy soul. But
thy bad impulses also thirst for freedom. Thy wild dogs want liberty; they
bark for joy in their cellar when thy spirit endeavoureth to open all prison
doors. Still art thou a prisoner- it seemeth to me- who deviseth liberty
for himself: ah! sharp becometh the soul of such prisoners, but also deceitful
and wicked. To purify himself, is still necessary for the freedman of the
spirit. Much of the prison and the mould still remaineth in him: pure hath
his eye still to become. Yea, I know thy danger. But by my love and hope
I conjure thee: cast not thy love and hope away! Noble thou feelest thyself
still, and noble others also feel thee still, though they bear thee a grudge
and cast evil looks. Know this, that to everybody a noble one standeth
in the way. Also to the good, a noble one standeth in the way: and even
when they call him a good man, they want thereby to put him aside. The
new, would the noble man create, and a new virtue. The old, wanteth the
good man, and that the old should be conserved. But it is not the danger
of the noble man to turn a good man, but lest he should become a blusterer,
a scoffer, or a destroyer. Ah! I have known noble ones who lost their highest
hope. And then they disparaged all high hopes. Then lived they shamelessly
in temporary pleasures, and beyond the day had hardly an aim. "Spirit is
also voluptuousness,"- said they. Then broke the wings of their spirit;
and now it creepeth about, and defileth where it gnaweth. Once they thought
of becoming heroes; but sensualists are they now. A trouble and a terror
is the hero to them. But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not away
the hero in thy soul! Maintain holy thy highest hope!- Thus spake Zarathustra.
9. The Preachers of Death THERE are preachers of death: and the earth is
full of those to whom desistance from life must be preached. Full is the
earth of the superfluous; marred is life by the many-too-many. May they
be decoyed out of this life by the "life eternal"! "The yellow ones": so
are called the preachers of death, or "the black ones." But I will show
them unto you in other colours besides. There are the terrible ones who
carry about in themselves the beast of prey, and have no choice except
lusts or self-laceration. And even their lusts are self-laceration. They
have not yet become men, those terrible ones: may they preach desistance
from life, and pass away themselves! There are the spiritually consumptive
ones: hardly are they born when they begin to die, and long for doctrines
of lassitude and renunciation. They would fain be dead, and we should approve
of their wish! Let us beware of awakening those dead ones, and of damaging
those living coffins! They meet an invalid, or an old man, or a corpse-
and immediately they say: "Life is refuted!" But they only are refuted,
and their eye, which seeth only one aspect of existence. Shrouded in thick
melancholy, and eager for the little casualties that bring death: thus
do they wait, and clench their teeth. Or else, they grasp at sweetmeats,
and mock at their childishness thereby: they cling to their straw of life,
and mock at their still clinging to it. Their wisdom speaketh thus: "A
fool, he who remaineth alive; but so far are we fools! And that is the
foolishest thing in life!" "Life is only suffering": so say others, and
lie not. Then see to it that ye cease! See to it that the life ceaseth
which is only suffering! And let this be the teaching of your virtue: "Thou
shalt slay thyself! Thou shalt steal away from thyself!"- "Lust is sin,"-
so say some who preach death- "let us go apart and beget no children!"
"Giving birth is troublesome,"- say others- "why still give birth? One
beareth only the unfortunate!" And they also are preachers of death. "Pity
is necessary,"- so saith a third party. "Take what I have! Take what I
am! So much less doth life bind me!" Were they consistently pitiful, then
would they make their neighbours sick of life. To be wicked- that would
be their true goodness. But they want to be rid of life; what care they
if they bind others still faster with their chains and gifts!- And ye also,
to whom life is rough labour and disquiet, are ye not very tired of life?
Are ye not very ripe for the sermon of death? All ye to whom rough labour
is dear, and the rapid, new, and strange- ye put up with yourselves badly;
your diligence is flight, and the will to self-forgetfulness. If ye believed
more in life, then would ye devote yourselves less to the momentary. But
for waiting, ye have not enough of capacity in you- nor even for idling!
Everywhere resoundeth the voices of those who preach death; and the earth
is full of those to whom death hath to be preached. Or "life eternal";
it is all the same to me- if only they pass away quickly!- Thus spake Zarathustra.
10. War and Warriors BY OUR best enemies we do not want to be spared, nor
by those either whom we love from the very heart. So let me tell you the
truth! My brethren in war! I love you from the very heart. I am, and was
ever, your counterpart. And I am also your best enemy. So let me tell you
the truth! I know the hatred and envy of your hearts. Ye are not great
enough not to know of hatred and envy. Then be great enough not to be ashamed
of them! And if ye cannot be saints of knowledge, then, I pray you, be
at least its warriors. They are the companions and forerunners of such
saintship. I see many soldiers; could I but see many warriors! "Uniform"
one calleth what they wear; may it not be uniform what they therewith hide!
Ye shall be those whose eyes ever seek for an enemy- for your enemy. And
with some of you there is hatred at first sight. Your enemy shall ye seek;
your war shall ye wage, and for the sake of your thoughts! And if your
thoughts succumb, your uprightness shall still shout triumph thereby! Ye
shall love peace as a means to new wars- and the short peace more than
the long. You I advise not to work, but to fight. You I advise not to peace,
but to victory. Let your work be a fight, let your peace be a victory!
One can only be silent and sit peacefully when one hath arrow and bow;
otherwise one prateth and quarrelleth. Let your peace be a victory! Ye
say it is the good cause which halloweth even war? I say unto you: it is
the good war which halloweth every cause. War and courage have done more
great things than charity. Not your sympathy, but your bravery hath hitherto
saved the victims. "What is good?" ye ask. To be brave is good. Let the
little girls say: "To be good is what is pretty, and at the same time touching."
They call you heartless: but your heart is true, and I love the bashfulness
of your goodwill. Ye are ashamed of your flow, and others are ashamed of
their ebb. Ye are ugly? Well then, my brethren, take the sublime about
you, the mantle of the ugly! And when your soul becometh great, then doth
it become haughty, and in your sublimity there is wickedness. I know you.
In wickedness the haughty man and the weakling meet. But they misunderstand
one another. I know you. Ye shall only have enemies to be hated, but not
enemies to be despised. Ye must be proud of your enemies; then, the successes
of your enemies are also your successes. Resistance- that is the distinction
of the slave. Let your distinction be obedience. Let your commanding itself
be obeying! To the good warrior soundeth "thou shalt" pleasanter than "I
will." And all that is dear unto you, ye shall first have it commanded
unto you. Let your love to life be love to your highest hope; and let your
highest hope be the highest thought of life! Your highest thought, however,
ye shall have it commanded unto you by me- and it is this: man is something
that is to be surpassed. So live your life of obedience and of war! What
matter about long life! What warrior wisheth to be spared! I spare you
not, I love you from my very heart, my brethren in war!- Thus spake Zarathustra.
11. The New Idol SOMEWHERE there are still peoples and herds, but not with
us, my brethren: here there are states. A state? What is that? Well! open
now your ears unto me, for now will I say unto you my word concerning the
death of peoples. A state, is called the coldest of all cold monsters.
Coldly lieth it also; and this lie creepeth from its mouth: "I, the state,
am the people." It is a lie! Creators were they who created peoples, and
hung a faith and a love over them: thus they served life. Destroyers, are
they who lay snares for many, and call it the state: they hang a sword
and a hundred cravings over them. Where there is still a people, there
the state is not understood, but hated as the evil eye, and as sin against
laws and customs. This sign I give unto you: every people speaketh its
language of good and evil: this its neighbour understandeth not. Its language
hath it devised for itself in laws and customs. But the state lieth in
all languages of good and evil; and whatever it saith it lieth; and whatever
it hath it hath stolen. False is everything in it; with stolen teeth it
biteth, the biting one. False are even its bowels. Confusion of language
of good and evil; this sign I give unto you as the sign of the state. Verily,
the will to death, indicateth this sign! Verily, it beckoneth unto the
preachers of death! Many too many are born: for the superfluous ones was
the state devised! See just how it enticeth them to it, the many-too-many!
How it swalloweth and cheweth and recheweth them! "On earth there is nothing
greater than I: it is I who am the regulating finger of God."- thus roareth
the monster. And not only the long-eared and short-sighted fall upon their
knees! Ah! even in your ears, ye great souls, it whispereth its gloomy
lies! Ah! it findeth out the rich hearts which willingly lavish themselves!
Yea, it findeth you out too, ye conquerors of the old God! Weary ye became
of the conflict, and now your weariness serveth the new idol! Heroes and
honourable ones, it would fain set up around it, the new idol! Gladly it
basketh in the sunshine of good consciences,- the cold monster! Everything
will it give you, if ye worship it, the new idol: thus it purchaseth the
lustre of your virtue, and the glance of your proud eyes. It seeketh to
allure by means of you, the many-too-many! Yea, a hellish artifice hath
here been devised, a death-horse jingling with the trappings of divine
honours! Yea, a dying for many hath here been devised, which glorifieth
itself as life: verily, a hearty service unto all preachers of death! The
state, I call it, where all are poison-drinkers, the good and the bad:
the state, where all lose themselves, the good and the bad: the state,
where the slow suicide of all- is called "life." Just see these superfluous
ones! They steal the works of the inventors and the treasures of the wise.
Culture, they call their theft- and everything becometh sickness and trouble
unto them! Just see these superfluous ones! Sick are they always; they
vomit their bile and call it a newspaper. They devour one another, and
cannot even digest themselves. Just see these superfluous ones! Wealth
they acquire and become poorer thereby. Power they seek for, and above
all, the lever of power, much money- these impotent ones! See them clamber,
these nimble apes! They clamber over one another, and thus scuffle into
the mud and the abyss. Towards the throne they all strive: it is their
madness- as if happiness sat on the throne! Ofttimes sitteth filth on the
throne.- and ofttimes also the throne on filth. Madmen they all seem to
me, and clambering apes, and too eager. Badly smelleth their idol to me,
the cold monster: badly they all smell to me, these idolaters. My brethren,
will ye suffocate in the fumes of their maws and appetites! Better break
the windows and jump into the open air! Do go out of the way of the bad
odour! Withdraw from the idolatry of the superfluous! Do go out of the
way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the steam of these human sacrifices!
Open still remaineth the earth for great souls. Empty are still many sites
for lone ones and twain ones, around which floateth the odour of tranquil
seas. Open still remaineth a free life for great souls. Verily, he who
possesseth little is so much the less possessed: blessed be moderate poverty!
There, where the state ceaseth- there only commenceth the man who is not
superfluous: there commenceth the song of the necessary ones, the single
and irreplaceable melody. There, where the state ceaseth- pray look thither,
my brethren! Do ye not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the Superman?-
Thus spake Zarathustra. 12. The Flies in the Market-Place FLEE, my friend,
into thy solitude! I see thee deafened with the noise of the great men,
and stung all over with the stings of the little ones. Admirably do forest
and rock know how to be silent with thee. Resemble again the tree which
thou lovest, the broad-branched one- silently and attentively it o'erhangeth
the sea. Where solitude endeth, there beginneth the market-place; and where
the market-place beginneth, there beginneth also the noise of the great
actors, and the buzzing of the poison-flies. In the world even the best
things are worthless without those who represent them: those representers,
the people call great men. Little, do the people understand what is great-
that is to say, the creating agency. But they have a taste for all representers
and actors of great things. Around the devisers of new values revolveth
the world:- invisibly it revolveth. But around the actors revolve the people
and the glory: such is the course of things. Spirit, hath the actor, but
little conscience of the spirit. He believeth always in that wherewith
he maketh believe most strongly- in himself! Tomorrow he hath a new belief,
and the day after, one still newer. Sharp perceptions hath he, like the
people, and changeable humours. To upset- that meaneth with him to prove.
To drive mad- that meaneth with him to convince. And blood is counted by
him as the best of all arguments. A truth which only glideth into fine
ears, he calleth falsehood and trumpery. Verily, he believeth only in gods
that make a great noise in the world! Full of clattering buffoons is the
market-place,- and the people glory in their great men! These are for them
the masters of the hour. But the hour presseth them; so they press thee.
And also from thee they want Yea or Nay. Alas! thou wouldst set thy chair
betwixt For and Against? On account of those absolute and impatient ones,
be not jealous, thou lover of truth! Never yet did truth cling to the arm
of an absolute one. On account of those abrupt ones, return into thy security:
only in the market-place is one assailed by Yea? or Nay? Slow is the experience
of all deep fountains: long have they to wait until they know what hath
fallen into their depths. Away from the market-place and from fame taketh
place all that is great: away from the market-Place and from fame have
ever dwelt the devisers of new values. Flee, my friend, into thy solitude:
I see thee stung all over by the poisonous flies. Flee thither, where a
rough, strong breeze bloweth! Flee into thy solitude! Thou hast lived too
closely to the small and the pitiable. Flee from their invisible vengeance!
Towards thee they have nothing but vengeance. Raise no longer an arm against
them! Innumerable are they, and it is not thy lot to be a fly-flap. Innumerable
are the small and pitiable ones; and of many a proud structure, rain-drops
and weeds have been the ruin. Thou art not stone; but already hast thou
become hollow by the numerous drops. Thou wilt yet break and burst by the
numerous drops. Exhausted I see thee, by poisonous flies; bleeding I see
thee, and torn at a hundred spots; and thy pride will not even upbraid.
Blood they would have from thee in all innocence; blood their bloodless
souls crave for- and they sting, therefore, in all innocence. But thou,
profound one, thou sufferest too profoundly even from small wounds; and
ere thou hadst recovered, the same poison-worm crawled over thy hand. Too
proud art thou to kill these sweet-tooths. But take care lest it be thy
fate to suffer all their poisonous injustice! They buzz around thee also
with their praise: obtrusiveness is their praise. They want to be close
to thy skin and thy blood. They flatter thee, as one flattereth a God or
devil; they whimper before thee, as before a God or devil; What doth it
come to! Flatterers are they, and whimperers, and nothing more. Often,
also, do they show themselves to thee as amiable ones. But that hath ever
been the prudence of the cowardly. Yea! the cowardly are wise! They think
much about thee with their circumscribed souls- thou art always suspected
by them! Whatever is much thought about is at last thought suspicious.
They punish thee for all thy virtues. They pardon thee in their inmost
hearts only- for thine errors. Because thou art gentle and of upright character,
thou sayest: "Blameless are they for their small existence." But their
circumscribed souls think: "Blamable is all great existence." Even when
thou art gentle towards them, they still feel themselves despised by thee;
and they repay thy beneficence with secret maleficence. Thy silent pride
is always counter to their taste; they rejoice if once thou be humble enough
to be frivolous. What we recognise in a man, we also irritate in him. Therefore
be on your guard against the small ones! In thy presence they feel themselves
small, and their baseness gleameth and gloweth against thee in invisible
vengeance. Sawest thou not how often they became dumb when thou approachedst
them, and how their energy left them like the smoke of an extinguishing
fire? Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art thou of thy neighbours; for
they are unworthy of thee. Therefore they hate thee, and would fain suck
thy blood. Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies; what is great
in thee- that itself must make them more poisonous, and always more fly-like.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude- and thither, where a rough strong breeze
bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.- Thus spake Zarathustra. 13.
Chastity I LOVE the forest. It is bad to live in cities: there, there are
too many of the lustful. Is it not better to fall into the hands of a murderer
than into the dreams of a lustful woman? And just look at these men: their
eye saith it- they know nothing better on earth than to lie with a woman.
Filth is at the bottom of their souls; and alas! if their filth hath still
spirit in it! Would that ye were perfect- at least as animals! But to animals
belongeth innocence. Do I counsel you to slay your instincts? I counsel
you to innocence in your instincts. Do I counsel you to chastity? Chastity
is a virtue with some, but with many almost a vice. These are continent,
to be sure: but doggish lust looketh enviously out of all that they do.
Even into the heights of their virtue and into their cold spirit doth this
creature follow them, with its discord. And how nicely can doggish lust
beg for a piece of spirit, when a piece of flesh is denied it! Ye love
tragedies and all that breaketh the heart? But I am distrustful of your
doggish lust. Ye have too cruel eyes, and ye look wantonly towards the
sufferers. Hath not your lust just disguised itself and taken the name
of fellow-suffering? And also this parable give I unto you: Not a few who
meant to cast out their devil, went thereby into the swine themselves.
To whom chastity is difficult, it is to be dissuaded: lest it become the
road to hell- to filth and lust of soul. Do I speak of filthy things? That
is not the worst thing for me to do. Not when the truth is filthy, but
when it is shallow, doth the discerning one go unwillingly into its waters.
Verily, there are chaste ones from their very nature; they are gentler
of heart, and laugh better and oftener than you. They laugh also at chastity,
and ask: "What is chastity? Is chastity not folly? But the folly came unto
us, and not we unto it. We offered that guest harbour and heart: now it
dwelleth with us- let it stay as long as it will!"- Thus spake Zarathustra.
14. The Friend "ONE is always too many about me"- thinketh the anchorite.
"Always once one- that maketh two in the long run!" I and me are always
too earnestly in conversation: how could it be endured, if there were not
a friend? The friend of the anchorite is always the third one: the third
one is the cork which preventeth the conversation of the two sinking into
the depth. Ah! there are too many depths for all anchorites. Therefore,
do they long so much for a friend and for his elevation. Our faith in others
betrayeth wherein we would fain have faith in ourselves. Our longing for
a friend is our betrayer. And often with our love we want merely to overleap
envy. And often we attack and make ourselves enemies, to conceal that we
are vulnerable. "Be at least mine enemy!"- thus speaketh the true reverence,
which doth not venture to solicit friendship. If one would have a friend,
then must one also be willing to wage war for him: and in order to wage
war, one must be capable of being an enemy. One ought still to honour the
enemy in one's friend. Canst thou go nigh unto thy friend, and not go over
to him? In one's friend one shall have one's best enemy. Thou shalt be
closest unto him with thy heart when thou withstandest him. Thou wouldst
wear no raiment before thy friend? It is in honour of thy friend that thou
showest thyself to him as thou art? But he wisheth thee to the devil on
that account! He who maketh no secret of himself shocketh: so much reason
have ye to fear nakedness! Aye, if ye were gods, ye could then be ashamed
of clothing! Thou canst not adorn thyself fine enough for thy friend; for
thou shalt be unto him an arrow and a longing for the Superman. Sawest
thou ever thy friend asleep- to know how he looketh? What is usually the
countenance of thy friend? It is thine own countenance, in a coarse and
imperfect mirror. Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep? Wert thou not dismayed
at thy friend looking so? O my friend, man is something that hath to be
surpassed. In divining and keeping silence shall the friend be a master:
not everything must thou wish to see. Thy dream shall disclose unto thee
what thy friend doeth when awake. Let thy pity be a divining: to know first
if thy friend wanteth pity. Perhaps he loveth in thee the unmoved eye,
and the look of eternity. Let thy pity for thy friend be hid under a hard
shell; thou shalt bite out a tooth upon it. Thus will it have delicacy
and sweetness. Art thou pure air and solitude and bread and medicine to
thy friend? Many a one cannot loosen his own fetters, but is nevertheless
his friend's emancipator. Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be a friend.
Art thou a tyrant? Then thou canst not have friends. Far too long hath
there been a slave and a tyrant concealed in woman. On that account woman
is not yet capable of friendship: she knoweth only love. In woman's love
there is injustice and blindness to all she doth not love. And even in
woman's conscious love, there is still always surprise and lightning and
night, along with the light. As yet woman is not capable of friendship:
women are still cats and birds. Or at the best, cows. As yet woman is not
capable of friendship. But tell me, ye men, who of you is capable of friendship?
Oh! your poverty, ye men, and your sordidness of soul! As much as ye give
to your friend, will I give even to my foe, and will not have become poorer
thereby. There is comradeship: may there be friendship! Thus spake Zarathustra.
15. The Thousand and One Goals MANY lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples:
thus he discovered the good and bad of many peoples. No greater power did
Zarathustra find on earth than good and bad. No people could live without
first valuing; if a people will maintain itself, however, it must not value
as its neighbour valueth. Much that passed for good with one people was
regarded with scorn and contempt by another: thus I found it. Much found
I here called bad, which was there decked with purple honours. Never did
the one neighbour understand the other: ever did his soul marvel at his
neighbour's delusion and wickedness. A table of excellencies hangeth over
every people. Lo! it is the table of their triumphs; lo! it is the voice
of their Will to Power. It is laudable, what they think hard; what is indispensable
and hard they call good; and what relieveth in the direst distress, the
unique and hardest of all,- they extol as holy. Whatever maketh them rule
and conquer and shine, to the dismay and envy of their neighbours, they
regard as the high and foremost thing, the test and the meaning of all
else. Verily, my brother, if thou knewest but a people's need, its land,
its sky, and its neighbour, then wouldst thou divine the law of its surmountings,
and why it climbeth up that ladder to its hope. "Always shalt thou be the
foremost and prominent above others: no one shall thy jealous soul love,
except a friend"- that made the soul of a Greek thrill: thereby went he
his way to greatness. "To speak truth, and be skilful with bow and arrow"-
so seemed it alike pleasing and hard to the people from whom cometh my
name- the name which is alike pleasing and hard to me. "To honour father
and mother, and from the root of the soul to do their will"- this table
of surmounting hung another people over them, and became powerful and permanent
thereby. "To have fidelity, and for the sake of fidelity to risk honour
and blood, even in evil and dangerous courses"- teaching itself so, another
people mastered itself, and thus mastering itself, became pregnant and
heavy with great hopes. Verily, men have given unto themselves all their
good and bad. Verily, they took it not, they found it not, it came not
unto them as a voice from heaven. Values did man only assign to things
in order to maintain himself- he created only the significance of things,
a human significance! Therefore, calleth he himself "man," that is, the
valuator. Valuing is creating: hear it, ye creating ones! Valuation itself
is the treasure and jewel of the valued things. Through valuation only
is there value; and without valuation the nut of existence would be hollow.
Hear it, ye creating ones! Change of values- that is, change of the creating
ones. Always doth he destroy who hath to be a creator. Creating ones were
first of all peoples, and only in late times individuals; verily, the individual
himself is still the latest creation. Peoples once hung over them tables
of the good. Love which would rule and love which would obey, created for
themselves such tables. Older is the pleasure in the herd than the pleasure
in the ego: and as long as the good conscience is for the herd, the bad
conscience only saith: ego. Verily, the crafty ego, the loveless one, that
seeketh its advantage in the advantage of many- it is not the origin of
the herd, but its ruin. Loving ones, was it always, and creating ones,
that created good and bad. Fire of love gloweth in the names of all the
virtues, and fire of wrath. Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples:
no greater power did Zarathustra find on earth than the creations of the
loving ones- "good" and "bad" are they called. Verily, a prodigy is this
power of praising and blaming. Tell me, ye brethren, who will master it
for me? Who will put a fetter upon the thousand necks of this animal? A
thousand goals have there been hitherto, for a thousand peoples have there
been. Only the fetter for the thousand necks is still lacking; there is
lacking the one goal. As yet humanity hath not a goal. But pray tell me,
my brethren, if the goal of humanity be still lacking, is there not also
still lacking- humanity itself?- Thus spake Zarathustra. 16. Neighbour-Love
YE CROWD around your neighbour, and have fine words for it. But I say unto
you: your neighbour-love is your bad love of yourselves. Ye flee unto your
neighbour from yourselves, and would fain make a virtue thereof: but I
fathom your "unselfishness." The Thou is older than the I; the Thou hath
been consecrated, but not yet the I: so man presseth nigh unto his neighbour.
Do I advise you to neighbour-love? Rather do I advise you to neighbour-flight
and to furthest love! Higher than love to your neighbour is love to the
furthest and future ones; higher still than love to men, is love to things
and phantoms. The phantom that runneth on before thee, my brother, is fairer
than thou; why dost thou not give unto it thy flesh and thy bones? But
thou fearest, and runnest unto thy neighbour. Ye cannot endure it with
yourselves, and do not love yourselves sufficiently: so ye seek to mislead
your neighbour into love, and would fain gild yourselves with his error.
Would that ye could not endure it with any kind of near ones, or their
neighbours; then would ye have to create your friend and his overflowing
heart out of yourselves. Ye call in a witness when ye want to speak well
of yourselves; and when ye have misled him to think well of you, ye also
think well of yourselves. Not only doth he lie, who speaketh contrary to
his knowledge, but more so, he who speaketh contrary to his ignorance.
And thus speak ye of yourselves in your intercourse, and belie your neighbour
with yourselves. Thus saith the fool: "Association with men spoileth the
character, especially when one hath none." The one goeth to his neighbour
because he seeketh himself, and the other because he would fain lose himself.
Your bad love to yourselves maketh solitude a prison to you. The furthest
ones are they who pay for your love to the near ones; and when there are
but five of you together, a sixth must always die. I love not your festivals
either: too many actors found I there, and even the spectators often behaved
like actors. Not the neighbour do I teach you, but the friend. Let the
friend be the festival of the earth to you, and a foretaste of the Superman.
I teach you the friend and his overflowing heart. But one must know how
to be a sponge, if one would be loved by over-flowing hearts. I teach you
the friend in whom the world standeth complete, a capsule of the good,-
the creating friend, who hath always a complete world to bestow. And as
the world unrolled itself for him, so rolleth it together again for him
in rings, as the growth of good through evil, as the growth of purpose
out of chance. Let the future and the furthest be the motive of thy today;
in thy friend shalt thou love the Superman as thy motive. My brethren,
I advise you not to neighbour-love- I advise you to furthest love!- Thus
spake Zarathustra. 17. The Way of the Creating One WOULDST thou go into
isolation, my brother? Wouldst thou seek the way unto thyself? Tarry yet
a little and hearken unto me. "He who seeketh may easily get lost himself.
All isolation is wrong": so say the herd. And long didst thou belong to
the herd. The voice of the herd will still echo in thee. And when thou
sayest, "I have no longer a conscience in common with you," then will it
be a plaint and a pain. Lo, that pain itself did the same conscience produce;
and the last gleam of that conscience still gloweth on thine affliction.
But thou wouldst go the way of thine affliction, which is the way unto
thyself? Then show me thine authority and thy strength to do so! Art thou
a new strength and a new authority? A first motion? A self-rolling wheel?
Canst thou also compel stars to revolve around thee? Alas! there is so
much lusting for loftiness! There are so many convulsions of the ambitions!
Show me that thou art not a lusting and ambitious one! Alas! there are
so many great thoughts that do nothing more than the bellows: they inflate,
and make emptier than ever. Free, dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling thought
would I hear of, and not that thou hast escaped from a yoke. Art thou one
entitled to escape from a yoke? Many a one hath cast away his final worth
when he hath cast away his servitude. Free from what? What doth that matter
to Zarathustra! Clearly, however, shall thine eye show unto me: free for
what? Canst thou give unto thyself thy bad and thy good, and set up thy
will as a law over thee? Canst thou be judge for thyself, and avenger of
thy law? Terrible is aloneness with the judge and avenger of one's own
law. Thus is a star projected into desert space, and into the icy breath
of aloneness. To-day sufferest thou still from the multitude, thou individual;
to-day hast thou still thy courage unabated, and thy hopes. But one day
will the solitude weary thee; one day will thy pride yield, and thy courage
quail. Thou wilt one day cry: "I am alone!" One day wilt thou see no longer
thy loftiness, and see too closely thy lowliness; thy sublimity itself
will frighten thee as a phantom. Thou wilt one day cry: "All is false!"
There are feelings which seek to slay the lonesome one; if they do not
succeed, then must they themselves die! But art thou capable of it- to
be a murderer? Hast thou ever known, my brother, the word "disdain"? And
the anguish of thy justice in being just to those that disdain thee? Thou
forcest many to think differently about thee; that, charge they heavily
to thine account. Thou camest nigh unto them, and yet wentest past: for
that they never forgive thee. Thou goest beyond them: but the higher thou
risest, the smaller doth the eye of envy see thee. Most of all, however,
is the flying one hated. "How could ye be just unto me!"- must thou say-
"I choose your injustice as my allotted portion. Injustice and filth cast
they at the lonesome one: but, my brother, if thou wouldst be a star, thou
must shine for them none the less on that account! And be on thy guard
against the good and just! They would fain crucify those who devise their
own virtue- they hate the lonesome ones. Be on thy guard, also, against
holy simplicity! All is unholy to it that is not simple; fain, likewise,
would it play with the fire- of the fagot and stake. And be on thy guard,
also, against the assaults of thy love! Too readily doth the recluse reach
his hand to any one who meeteth him. To many a one mayest thou not give
thy hand, but only thy paw; and I wish thy paw also to have claws. But
the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou thyself always be; thou waylayest
thyself in caverns and forests. Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to
thyself! And past thyself and thy seven devils leadeth thy way! A heretic
wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard and a soothsayer, and a fool, and
a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain. Ready must thou be to burn thyself
in thine own flame; how couldst thou become new if thou have not first
become ashes! Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the creating one:
a God wilt thou create for thyself out of thy seven devils! Thou lonesome
one, thou goest the way of the loving one: thou lovest thyself, and on
that account despisest thou thyself, as only the loving ones despise. To
create, desireth the loving one, because he despiseth! What knoweth he
of love who hath not been obliged to despise just what he loved! With thy
love, go into thine isolation, my brother, and with thy creating; and late
only will justice limp after thee. With my tears, go into thine isolation,
my brother. I love him who seeketh to create beyond himself, and thus succumbeth.-
Thus spake Zarathustra. 18. Old and Young Women WHY stealest thou along
so furtively in the twilight, Zarathustra? And what hidest thou so carefully
under thy mantle? Is it a treasure that hath been given thee? Or a child
that hath been born thee? Or goest thou thyself on a thief's errand, thou
friend of the evil?- Verily, my brother, said Zarathustra, it is a treasure
that hath been given me: it is a little truth which I carry. But it is
naughty, like a young child; and if I hold not its mouth, it screameth
too loudly. As I went on my way alone today, at the hour when the sun declineth,
there met me an old woman, and she spake thus unto my soul: "Much hath
Zarathustra spoken also to us women, but never spake he unto us concerning
woman." And I answered her: "Concerning woman, one should only talk unto
men." "Talk also unto me of woman," said she; "I am old enough to forget
it presently." And I obliged the old woman and spake thus unto her: Everything
in woman is a riddle, and everything in woman hath one solution- it is
called pregnancy. Man is for woman a means: the purpose is always the child.
But what is woman for man? Two different things wanteth the true man: danger
and diversion. Therefore wanteth he woman, as the most dangerous plaything.
Man shall be trained for war, and woman for the recreation of the warrior:
all else is folly. Too sweet fruits- these the warrior liketh not. Therefore
liketh he woman;- bitter is even the sweetest woman. Better than man doth
woman understand children, but man is more childish than woman. In the
true man there is a child hidden: it wanteth to play. Up then, ye women,
and discover the child in man! A plaything let woman be, pure and fine
like the precious stone, illumined with the virtues of a world not yet
come. Let the beam of a star shine in your love! Let your hope say: "May
I bear the Superman!" In your love let there be valour! With your love
shall ye assail him who inspireth you with fear! In your love be your honour!
Little doth woman understand otherwise about honour. But let this be your
honour: always to love more than ye are loved, and never be the second.
Let man fear woman when she loveth: then maketh she every sacrifice, and
everything else she regardeth as worthless. Let man fear woman when she
hateth: for man in his innermost soul is merely evil; woman, however, is
mean.
Whom hateth woman most?- Thus spake the iron to the loadstone: "I hate
thee most, because thou attractest, but art too weak to draw unto thee."
The happiness of man is, "I will." The happiness of woman is, "He will."
"Lo! "Lo! now hath the world become perfect!"- thus thinketh every woman
when she obeyeth with all her love. Obey, must the woman, and find a depth
for her surface. Surface is woman's soul, a mobile, stormy film on shallow
water. Man's soul, however, is deep, its current gusheth in subterranean
caverns: woman surmiseth its force, but comprehendeth it not.- Then answered
me the old woman: "Many fine things hath Zarathustra said, especially for
those who are young enough for them. Strange! Zarathustra knoweth little
about woman, and yet he is right about them! Doth this happen, because
with women nothing is impossible? And now accept a little truth by way
of thanks! I am old enough for it! Swaddle it up and hold its mouth: otherwise
it will scream too loudly, the little truth." "Give me, woman, thy little
truth!" said I. And thus spake the old woman: "Thou goest to women? Do
not forget thy whip!"- Thus spake Zarathustra. 19. The Bite of the Adder
ONE day had Zarathustra fallen asleep under a fig-tree, owing to the heat,
with his arm over his face. And there came an adder and bit him in the
neck, so that Zarathustra screamed with pain. When he had taken his arm
from his face he looked at the serpent; and then did it recognise the eyes
of Zarathustra, wriggled awkwardly, and tried to get away. "Not at all,"
said Zarathustra, "as yet hast thou not received my thanks! Thou hast awakened
me in time; my journey is yet long." "Thy journey is short," said the adder
sadly; "my poison is fatal." Zarathustra smiled. "When did ever a dragon
die of a serpent's poison?"- said he. "But take thy poison back! Thou art
not rich enough to present it to me." Then fell the adder again on his
neck, and licked his wound. When Zarathustra once told this to his disciples
they asked him: "And what, O Zarathustra, is the moral of thy story?" And
Zarathustra answered them thus: The destroyer of morality, the good and
just call me: my story is immoral. When, however, ye have an enemy, then
return him not good for evil: for that would abash him. But prove that
he hath done something good to you. And rather be angry than abash any
one! And when ye are cursed, it pleaseth me not that ye should then desire
to bless. Rather curse a little also! And should a great injustice befall
you, then do quickly five small ones besides. Hideous to behold is he on
whom injustice presseth alone. Did ye ever know this? Shared injustice
is half justice. And he who can bear it, shall take the injustice upon
himself! A small revenge is humaner than no revenge at all. And if the
punishment be not also a right and an honour to the transgressor, I do
not like your punishing. Nobler is it to own oneself in the wrong than
to establish one's right, especially if one be in the right. Only, one
must be rich enough to do so. I do not like your cold justice; out of the
eye of your judges there always glanceth the executioner and his cold steel.
Tell me: where find we justice, which is love with seeing eyes? Devise
me, then, the love which not only beareth all punishment, but also all
guilt! Devise me, then, the justice which acquitteth every one except the
judge! And would ye hear this likewise? To him who seeketh to be just from
the heart, even the lie becometh philanthropy. But how could I be just
from the heart! How can I give every one his own! Let this be enough for
me: I give unto every one mine own. Finally, my brethren, guard against
doing wrong to any anchorite. How could an anchorite forget! How could
he requite! Like a deep well is an anchorite. Easy is it to throw in a
stone: if it should sink to the bottom, however, tell me, who will bring
it out again? Guard against injuring the anchorite! If ye have done so,
however, well then, kill him also!- Thus spake Zarathustra. 20. Child and
Marriage I HAVE a question for thee alone, my brother: like a sounding-lead,
cast I this question into thy soul, that I may know its depth. Thou art
young, and desirest child and marriage. But I ask thee: Art thou a man
entitled to desire a child? Art thou the victorious one, the self-conqueror,
the ruler of thy passions, the master of thy virtues? Thus do I ask thee.
Or doth the animal speak in thy wish, and necessity? Or isolation? Or discord
in thee? I would have thy victory and freedom long for a child. Living
monuments shalt thou build to thy victory and emancipation. Beyond thyself
shalt thou build. But first of all must thou be built thyself, rectangular
in body and soul. Not only onward shalt thou propagate thyself, but upward!
For that purpose may the garden of marriage help thee! A higher body shalt
thou create, a first movement, a spontaneously rolling wheel- a creating
one shalt thou create. Marriage: so call I the will of the twain to create
the one that is more than those who created it. The reverence for one another,
as those exercising such a will, call I marriage. Let this be the significance
and the truth of thy marriage. But that which the many-too-many call marriage,
those superfluous ones- ah, what shall I call it? Ah, the poverty of soul
in the twain! Ah, the filth of soul in the twain! Ah, the pitiable self-complacency
in the twain! Marriage they call it all; and they say their marriages are
made in heaven. Well, I do not like it, that heaven of the superfluous!
No, I do not like them, those animals tangled in the heavenly toils! Far
from me also be the God who limpeth thither to bless what he hath not matched!
Laugh not at such marriages! What child hath not had reason to weep over
its parents? Worthy did this man seem, and ripe for the meaning of the
earth: but when I saw his wife, the earth seemed to me a home for madcaps.
Yea, I would that the earth shook with convulsions when a saint and a goose
mate with one another. This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero,
and at last got for himself a small decked-up lie: his marriage he calleth
it. That one was reserved in intercourse and chose choicely. But one time
he spoilt his company for all time: his marriage he calleth it. Another
sought a handmaid with the virtues of an angel. But all at once he became
the handmaid of a woman, and now would he need also to become an angel.
Careful, have I found all buyers, and all of them have astute eyes. But
even the astutest of them buyeth his wife in a sack. Many short follies-
that is called love by you. And your marriage putteth an end to many short
follies, with one long stupidity. Your love to woman, and woman's love
to man- ah, would that it were sympathy for suffering and veiled deities!
But generally two animals alight on one another. But even your best love
is only an enraptured simile and a painful ardour. It is a torch to light
you to loftier paths. Beyond yourselves shall ye love some day! Then learn
first of all to love. And on that account ye had to drink the bitter cup
of your love. Bitterness is in the cup even of the best love; thus doth
it cause longing for the Superman; thus doth it cause thirst in thee, the
creating one! Thirst in the creating one, arrow and longing for the Superman:
tell me, my brother, is this thy will to marriage? Holy call I such a will,
and such a marriage.- Thus spake Zarathustra. 21. Voluntary Death MANY
die too late, and some die too early. Yet strange soundeth the precept:
"Die at the right time! Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra.
To be sure, he who never liveth at the right time, how could he ever die
at the right time? Would that he might never be born!- Thus do I advise
the superfluous ones. But even the superfluous ones make much ado about
their death, and even the hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked. Every one
regardeth dying as a great matter: but as yet death is not a festival.
Not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals. The consummating
death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and promise to the living.
His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping
and promising ones. Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no
festival at which such a dying one doth not consecrate the oaths of the
living! Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is to die in battle,
and sacrifice a great soul. But to the fighter equally hateful as to the
victor, is your grinning death which stealeth nigh like a thief,- and yet
cometh as master. My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary death, which
cometh unto me because I want it. And when shall I want it?- He that hath
a goal and an heir, wanteth death at the right time for the goal and the
heir. And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no
more withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life. Verily, not the rope-makers
will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever backward.
Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless
mouth hath no longer the right to every truth. And whoever wanteth to have
fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult art
of- going at the right time. One must discontinue being feasted upon when
one tasteth best: that is known by those who want to be long loved. Sour
apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last day of
autumn: and at the same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.
In some ageth the heart first, and in others the spirit. And some are hoary
in youth, but the late young keep long young. To many men life is a failure;
a poison-worm gnaweth at their heart. Then let them see to it that their
dying is all the more a success. Many never become sweet; they rot even
in the summer. It is cowardice that holdeth them fast to their branches.
Far too many live, and far too long hang they on their branches. Would
that a storm came and shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from
the tree! Would that there came preachers of speedy death! Those would
be the appropriate storms and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear
only slow death preached, and patience with all that is "earthly." Ah!
ye preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that hath too
much patience with you, ye blasphemers! Verily, too early died that Hebrew
whom the preachers of slow death honour: and to many hath it proved a calamity
that he died too early. As yet had he known only tears, and the melancholy
of the Hebrews, together with the hatred of the good and just- the Hebrew
Jesus: then was he seized with the longing for death. Had he but remained
in the wilderness, and far from the good and just! Then, perhaps, would
he have learned to live, and love the earth- and laughter also! Believe
it, my brethren! He died too early; he himself would have disavowed his
doctrine had he attained to my age! Noble enough was he to disavow! But
he was still immature. Immaturely loveth the youth, and immaturely also
hateth he man and earth. Confined and awkward are still his soul and the
wings of his spirit. But in man there is more of the child than in the
youth, and less of melancholy: better understandeth he about life and death.
Free for death, and free in death; a holy Naysayer, when there is no longer
time for Yea: thus understandeth he about death and life. That your dying
may not be a reproach to man and the earth, my friends: that do I solicit
from the honey of your soul. In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue
still shine like an evening after-glow around the earth: otherwise your
dying hath been unsatisfactory. Thus will I die myself, that ye friends
may love the earth more for my sake; and earth will I again become, to
have rest in her that bore me. Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw
his ball. Now be ye friends the heirs of my goal; to you throw I the golden
ball. Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the golden ball! And
so tarry I still a little while on the earth- pardon me for it! Thus spake
Zarathustra.
22.
The Bestowing Virtue
1.
WHEN Zarathustra had taken leave of the town to which his heart was attached,
the name of which is "The Pied Cow," there followed him many people who
called themselves his disciples, and kept him company. Thus came they to
a crossroads. Then Zarathustra told them that he now wanted to go alone;
for he was fond of going alone. His disciples, however, presented him at
his departure with a staff, on the golden handle of which a serpent twined
round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on account of the staff, and supported
himself thereon; then spake he thus to his disciples: Tell me, pray: how
came gold to the highest value? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting,
and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always bestoweth itself. Only as image
of the highest virtue came gold to the highest value. Goldlike, beameth
the glance of the bestower. Gold-lustre maketh peace between moon and sun.
Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting, beaming is it, and soft
of lustre: a bestowing virtue is the highest virtue. Verily, I divine you
well, my disciples: ye strive like me for the bestowing virtue. What should
ye have in common with cats and wolves? It is your thirst to become sacrifices
and gifts yourselves: and therefore have ye the thirst to accumulate all
riches in your soul. Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels,
because your virtue is insatiable in desiring to bestow. Ye constrain all
things to flow towards you and into you, so that they shall flow back again
out of your fountain as the gifts of your love. Verily, an appropriator
of all values must such bestowing. love become; but healthy and holy, call
I this selfishness.- Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and
hungry kind, which would always steal- the selfishness of the sick, the
sickly selfishness. With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that
is lustrous; with the craving of hunger it measureth him who hath abundance;
and ever doth it prowl round the tables of bestowers. Sickness speaketh
in such craving, and invisible degeneration; of a sickly body, speaketh
the larcenous craving of this selfishness. Tell me, my brother, what do
we think bad, and worst of all? Is it not degeneration?- And we always
suspect degeneration when the bestowing soul is lacking. Upward goeth our
course from genera on to super-genera. But a horror to us is the degenerating
sense, which saith: "All for myself." Upward soareth our sense: thus is
it a simile of our body, a simile of an elevation. Such similes of elevations
are the names of the virtues. Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer
and fighter. And the spirit- what is it to the body? Its fights' and victories'
herald, its companion and echo. Similes, are all names of good and evil;
they do not speak out, they only hint. A fool who seeketh knowledge from
them! Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your spirit would speak
in similes: there is the origin of your virtue. Elevated is then your body,
and raised up; with its delight, enraptureth it the spirit; so that it
becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and everything's benefactor. When
your heart overfloweth broad and full like the river, a blessing and a
danger to the lowlanders: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye are
exalted above praise and blame, and your will would command all things,
as a loving one's will: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye despise
pleasant things, and the effeminate couch, and cannot couch far enough
from the effeminate: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye are willers
of one will, and when that change of every need is needful to you: there
is the origin of your virtue. Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily,
a new deep murmuring, and the voice of a new fountain! Power is it, this
new virtue; a ruling thought is it, and around it a subtle soul: a golden
sun, with the serpent of knowledge around it. 2. Here paused Zarathustra
awhile, and looked lovingly on his disciples. Then he continued to speak
thus- and his voice had changed: Remain true to the earth, my brethren,
with the power of your virtue! Let your bestowing love and your knowledge
be devoted to be the meaning of the earth! Thus do I pray and conjure you.
Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat against eternal walls with
its wings! Ah, there hath always been so much flown-away virtue! Lead,
like me, the flown-away virtue back to the earth- yea, back to body and
life: that it may give to the earth its meaning, a human meaning! A hundred
times hitherto hath spirit as well as virtue flown away and blundered.
Alas! in our body dwelleth still all this delusion and blundering: body
and will hath it there become. A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as
well as virtue attempted and erred. Yea, an attempt hath man been. Alas,
much ignorance and error hath become embodied in us! Not only the rationality
of millennia- also their madness, breaketh out in us. Dangerous is it to
be an heir. Still fight we step by step with the giant Chance, and over
all mankind hath hitherto ruled nonsense, the lack-of-sense. Let your spirit
and your virtue be devoted to the sense of the earth, my brethren: let
the value of everything be determined anew by you! Therefore shall ye be
fighters! Therefore shall ye be creators! Intelligently doth the body purify
itself; attempting with intelligence it exalteth itself; to the discerners
all impulses sanctify themselves; to the exalted the soul becometh joyful.
Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also heal thy patient. Let it be
his best cure to see with his eyes him who maketh himself whole. A thousand
paths are there which have never yet been trodden; a thousand salubrities
and hidden islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is still man and
man's world. Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From the future come
winds with stealthy pinions, and to fine ears good tidings are proclaimed.
Ye lonesome ones of today, ye seceding ones, ye shall one day be a people:
out of you who have chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people arise:- and
out of it the Superman. Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become!
And already is a new odour diffused around it, a salvation-bringing odour-
and a new hope! 3. When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he paused,
like one who had not said his last word; and long did he balance the staff
doubtfully in his hand. At last he spake thus- and his voice had changed:
I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go away, and alone! So will I
have it. Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against
Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath deceived
you. The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but
also to hate his friends. One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely
a scholar. And why will ye not pluck at my wreath? Ye venerate me; but
what if your veneration should some day collapse? Take heed lest a statue
crush you! Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account is Zarathustra!
Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers! Ye had not
yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all believers; therefore
all belief is of so little account. Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves;
and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you. Verily, with
other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; with another love
shall I then love you. And once again shall ye have become friends unto
me, and children of one hope: then will I be with you for the third time,
to celebrate the great noontide with you. And it is the great noontide,
when man is in the middle of his course between animal and Superman, and
celebrateth his advance to the evening as his highest hope: for it is the
advance to a new morning. At such time will the down-goer bless himself,
that he should be an over-goer; and the sun of his knowledge will be at
noontide. "Dead are all the Gods: now do we desire the Superman to live."-
Let this be our final will at the great noontide!- Thus spake Zarathustra.
