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THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
by Friedrich Nietzsche
translated by Thomas Common
THIRD PART
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"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."
- ZARATHUSTRA, I., "Reading and Writing."
45.
The Wanderer
THEN, when it was about midnight, Zarathustra went his way over the ridge
of the isle, that he might arrive early in the morning at the other coast;
because there he meant to embark. For there was a good roadstead there,
in which foreign ships also liked to anchor: those ships took many people
with them, who wished to cross over from the Happy Isles. So when Zarathustra
thus ascended the mountain, he thought on the way of his many solitary
wanderings from youth onwards, and how many mountains and ridges and summits
he had already climbed. I am a wanderer and mountain-climber, said he to
his heart. I love not the plains, and it seemeth I cannot long sit still.
And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience- a wandering
will be therein, and a mountain-climbing: in the end one experienceth only
oneself. The time is now past when accidents could befall me; and what
could now fall to my lot which would not already be mine own! It returneth
only, it cometh home to me at last- mine own Self, and such of it as hath
been long abroad, and scattered among things and accidents. And one thing
more do I know: I stand now before my last summit, and before that which
hath been longest reserved for me. Ah, my hardest path must I ascend! Ah,
I have begun my lonesomest wandering! He, however, who is of my nature
doth not avoid such an hour: the hour that saith unto him: Now only dost
thou go the way to thy greatness! Summit and abyss- these are now comprised
together! Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now hath it become thy last
refuge, what was hitherto thy last danger! Thou goest the way to thy greatness:
it must now be thy best courage that there is no longer any path behind
thee! Thou goest the way to thy greatness: here shall no one steal after
thee! Thy foot itself hath effaced the path behind thee, and over it standeth
written: Impossibility. And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must
thou learn to mount upon thine own head: how couldst thou mount upward
otherwise? Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the
gentlest in thee become the hardest. He who hath always much-indulged himself,
sickeneth at last by his much-indulgence. Praises on what maketh hardy!
I do not praise the land where butter and honey- flow! To learn to look
away from oneself, is necessary in order to see many things.- this hardiness
is needed by every mountain-climber. He, however, who is obtrusive with
his eyes as a discerner, how can he ever see more of anything than its
foreground! But thou, O Zarathustra, wouldst view the ground of everything,
and its background: thus must thou mount even above thyself- up, upwards,
until thou hast even thy stars under thee! Yea! To look down upon myself,
and even upon my stars: that only would I call my summit, that hath remained
for me as my last summit!- Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while ascending,
comforting his heart with harsh maxims: for he was sore at heart as he
had never been before. And when he had reached the top of the mountain-ridge,
behold, there lay the other sea spread out before him; and he stood still
and was long silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear
and starry. I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am
ready. Now hath my last lonesomeness begun. Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below
me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation! Ah, fate and sea! To you must I
now go down! Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest
wandering: therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended:
-Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest flood!
So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready. Whence come the highest mountains?
so did I once ask. Then did I learn that they come out of the sea. That
testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their summits.
Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.- Thus spake Zarathustra
on the ridge of the mountain where it was cold: when, however, he came
into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stood alone amongst the cliffs,
then had he become weary on his way, and eagerer than ever before. Everything
as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and strangely
doth its eye gaze upon me. But it breatheth warmly- I feel it. And I feel
also that it dreameth. It tosseth about dreamily on hard pillows. Hark!
Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evil expectations? Ah,
I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myself even
for thy sake. Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed,
would I free thee from evil dreams!- And while Zarathustra thus spake,
he laughed at himself with melancholy and bitterness. What! Zarathustra,
said he, wilt thou even sing consolation to the sea? Ah, thou amiable fool,
Zarathustra, thou too-blindly confiding one! But thus hast thou ever been:
ever hast thou approached confidently all that is terrible. Every monster
wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on its
paw:- and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it. Love is the
danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, if it only live! Laughable,
verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!- Thus spake Zarathustra, and
laughed thereby a second time. Then, however, he thought of his abandoned
friends- and as if he had done them a wrong with his thoughts, he upbraided
himself because of his thoughts. And forthwith it came to pass that the
laugher wept- with anger and longing wept Zarathustra bitterly.
46.
The Vision and the Enigma
1. WHEN it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on
board the ship- for a man who came from the Happy Isles had gone on board
along with him,- there was great curiosity and expectation. But Zarathustra
kept silent for two days, and was cold and deaf with sadness; so that he
neither answered looks nor questions. On the evening of the second day,
however, he again opened his ears, though he still kept silent: for there
were many curious and dangerous things to be heard on board the ship, which
came from afar, and was to go still further. Zarathustra, however, was
fond of all those who make distant voyages, and dislike to live without
danger. And behold! when listening, his own tongue was at last loosened,
and the ice of his heart broke. Then did he begin to speak thus: To you,
the daring venturers and adventurers, and whoever hath embarked with cunning
sails upon frightful seas,- To you the enigma-intoxicated, the twilight-enjoyers,
whose souls are allured by flutes to every treacherous gulf: -For ye dislike
to grope at a thread with cowardly hand; and where ye can divine, there
do ye hate to calculate- To you only do I tell the enigma that I saw- the
vision of the lonesomest one.- Gloomily walked I lately in corpse-coloured
twilight- gloomily and sternly, with compressed lips. Not only one sun
had set for me. A path which ascended daringly among boulders, an evil,
lonesome path, which neither herb nor shrub any longer cheered, a mountain-path,
crunched under the daring of my foot. Mutely marching over the scornful
clinking of pebbles, trampling the stone that let it slip: thus did my
foot force its way upwards. Upwards:- in spite of the spirit that drew
it downwards, towards the abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and archenemy.
Upwards:- although it sat upon me, half-dwarf, half-mole; paralysed, paralysing;
dripping lead in mine ear, and thoughts like drops of lead into my brain.
"O Zarathustra," it whispered scornfully, syllable by syllable, "thou stone
of wisdom! Thou threwest thyself high, but every thrown stone must- fall!
O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom, thou sling-stone, thou star-destroyer!
Thyself threwest thou so high,- but every thrown stone- must fall! Condemned
of thyself, and to thine own stoning: O Zarathustra, far indeed threwest
thou thy stone- but upon thyself will it recoil!" Then was the dwarf silent;
and it lasted long. The silence, however, oppressed me; and to be thus
in pairs, one is verily lonesomer than when alone! I ascended, I ascended,
I dreamt, I thought,- but everything oppressed me. A sick one did I resemble,
whom bad torture wearieth, and a worse dream reawakeneth out of his first
sleep.- But there is something in me which I call courage: it hath hitherto
slain for me every dejection. This courage at last bade me stand still
and say: "Dwarf! Thou! Or I!"- For courage is the best slayer,- courage
which attacketh: for in every attack there is sound of triumph. Man, however,
is the most courageous animal: thereby hath he overcome every animal. With
sound of triumph hath he overcome every pain; human pain, however, is the
sorest pain. Courage slayeth also giddiness at abysses: and where doth
man not stand at abysses! Is not seeing itself- seeing abysses? Courage
is the best slayer: courage slayeth also fellow-suffering. Fellow-suffering,
however, is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man looketh into life, so deeply
also doth he look into suffering. Courage, however, is the best slayer,
courage which attacketh: it slayeth even death itself; for it saith: "Was
that life? Well! Once more!" In such speech, however, there is much sound
of triumph. He who hath ears to hear, let him hear.-
2. "Halt, dwarf!" said I. "Either I- or thou! I, however, am
the stronger of the two:- thou knowest not mine abysmal thought! It- couldst
thou not endure!" Then happened that which made me lighter: for the dwarf
sprang from my shoulder, the prying sprite! And it squatted on a stone
in front of me. There was however a gateway just where we halted. "Look
at this gateway! Dwarf!" I continued, "it hath two faces. Two roads come
together here: these hath no one yet gone to the end of. This long lane
backwards: it continueth for an eternity. And that long lane forward- that
is another eternity. They are antithetical to one another, these roads;
they directly abut on one another:- and it is here, at this gateway, that
they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: 'This Moment.'
But should one follow them further- and ever further and further on, thinkest
thou, dwarf, that these roads would be eternally antithetical?"- "Everything
straight lieth," murmured the dwarf, contemptuously. "All truth is crooked;
time itself is a circle." "Thou spirit of gravity!" said I wrathfully,
"do not take it too lightly! Or I shall let thee squat where thou squattest,
Haltfoot,- and I carried thee high!" "Observe," continued I, "This Moment!
From the gateway, This Moment, there runneth a long eternal lane backwards:
behind us lieth an eternity. Must not whatever can run its course of all
things, have already run along that lane? Must not whatever can happen
of all things have already happened, resulted, and gone by? And if everything
has already existed, what thinkest thou, dwarf, of This Moment? Must not
this gateway also- have already existed? And are not all things closely
bound together in such wise that This Moment draweth all coming things
after it? Consequently- itself also? For whatever can run its course of
all things, also in this long lane outward- must it once more run!- And
this slow spider which creepeth in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself,
and thou and I in this gateway whispering together, whispering of eternal
things- must we not all have already existed? -And must we not return and
run in that other lane out before us, that long weird lane- must we not
eternally return?"- Thus did I speak, and always more softly: for I was
afraid of mine own thoughts, and arrear-thoughts. Then, suddenly did I
hear a dog howl near me. Had I ever heard a dog howl thus? My thoughts
ran back. Yes! When I was a child, in my most distant childhood: -Then
did I hear a dog howl thus. And saw it also, with hair bristling, its head
upwards, trembling in the stillest midnight, when even dogs believe in
ghosts: -So that it excited my commiseration. For just then went the full
moon, silent as death, over the house; just then did it stand still, a
glowing globe- at rest on the flat roof, as if on some one's property:-
Thereby had the dog been terrified: for dogs believe in thieves and ghosts.
And when I again heard such howling, then did it excite my commiseration
once more. Where was now the dwarf? And the gateway? And the spider? And
all the whispering? Had I dreamt? Had I awakened? 'Twixt rugged rocks did
I suddenly stand alone, dreary in the dreariest moonlight. But there lay
a man! And there! The dog leaping, bristling, whining- now did it see me
coming- then did it howl again, then did it cry:- had I ever heard a dog
cry so for help? And verily, what I saw, the like had I never seen. A young
shepherd did I see, writhing, choking, quivering, with distorted countenance,
and with a heavy black serpent hanging out of his mouth. Had I ever seen
so much loathing and pale horror on one countenance? He had perhaps gone
to sleep? Then had the serpent crawled into his throat- there had it bitten
itself fast. My hand pulled at the serpent, and pulled:- in vain! I failed
to pull the serpent out of his throat. Then there cried out of me: "Bite!
Bite! Its head off! Bite!"- so cried it out of me; my horror, my hatred,
my loathing, my pity, all my good and my bad cried with one voice out of
me.- Ye daring ones around me! Ye venturers and adventurers, and whoever
of you have embarked with cunning sails on unexplored seas! Ye enigma-enjoyers!
Solve unto me the enigma that I then beheld, interpret unto me the vision
of the lonesomest one! For it was a vision and a foresight:- what did I
then behold in parable? And who is it that must come some day? Who is the
shepherd into whose throat the serpent thus crawled? Who is the man into
whose throat all the heaviest and blackest will thus crawl? -The shepherd
however bit as my cry had admonished him; he bit with a strong bite! Far
away did he spit the head of the serpent:- and sprang up.- No longer shepherd,
no longer man- a transfigured being, a light-surrounded being, that laughed!
Never on earth laughed a man as he laughed! O my brethren, I heard a laughter
which was no human laughter,- and now gnaweth a thirst at me, a longing
that is never allayed. My longing for that laughter gnaweth at me: oh,
how can I still endure to live! And how could I endure to die at present!-
Thus spake Zarathustra.
47.
Involuntary Bliss
WITH such enigmas and bitterness in his heart did Zarathustra sail o'er
the sea. When, however, he was four day-journeys from the Happy Isles and
from his friends, then had he surmounted all his pain:- triumphantly and
with firm foot did he again accept his fate. And then talked Zarathustra
in this wise to his exulting conscience: Alone am I again, and like to
be so, alone with the pure heaven, and the open sea; and again is the afternoon
around me. On an afternoon did I find my friends for the first time; on
an afternoon, also, did I find them a second time:- at the hour when all
light becometh stiller. For whatever happiness is still on its way 'twixt
heaven and earth, now seeketh for lodging a luminous soul: with happiness
hath all light now become stiller. O afternoon of my life! Once did my
happiness also descend to the valley that it might seek a lodging: then
did it find those open hospitable souls. O afternoon of my life! What did
I not surrender that I might have one thing: this living plantation of
my thoughts, and this dawn of my highest hope! Companions did the creating
one once seek, and children of his hope: and lo, it turned out that he
could not find them, except he himself should first create them. Thus am
I in the midst of my work, to my children going, and from them returning:
for the sake of his children must Zarathustra perfect himself. For in one's
heart one loveth only one's child and one's work; and where there is great
love to oneself, then is it the sign of pregnancy: so have I found it.
Still are my children verdant in their first spring, standing nigh one
another, and shaken in common by the winds, the trees of my garden and
of my best soil. And verily, where such trees stand beside one another,
there are Happy Isles! But one day will I take them up, and put each by
itself alone: that it may learn lonesomeness and defiance and prudence.
Gnarled and crooked and with flexible hardness shall it then stand by the
sea, a living lighthouse of unconquerable life. Yonder where the storms
rush down into the sea, and the snout of the mountain drinketh water, shall
each on a time have his day and night watches, for his testing and recognition.
Recognised and tested shall each be, to see if he be of my type and lineage:-
if he be master of a long will, silent even when he speaketh, and giving
in such wise that he taketh in giving:- -So that he may one day become
my companion, a fellow-creator and fellow-enjoyer with Zarathustra:- such
a one as writeth my will on my tables, for the fuller perfection of all
things. And for his sake and for those like him, must I perfect myself:
therefore do I now avoid my happiness, and present myself to every misfortune-
for my final testing and recognition. And verily, it were time that I went
away; and the wanderer's shadow and the longest tedium and the stillest
hour- have all said unto me: "It is the highest time!" The word blew to
me through the keyhole and said "Come!" The door sprang subtly open unto
me, and said "Go!" But I lay enchained to my love for my children: desire
spread this snare for me- the desire for love- that I should become the
prey of my children, and lose myself in them. Desiring- that is now for
me to have lost myself. I possess you, my children! In this possessing
shall everything be assurance and nothing desire. But brooding lay the
sun of my love upon me, in his own juice stewed Zarathustra,- then did
shadows and doubts fly past me. For frost and winter I now longed: "Oh,
that frost and winter would again make me crack and crunch!" sighed I:-
then arose icy mist out of me. My past burst its tomb, many pains buried
alike woke up:- fully slept had they merely, concealed in corpse-clothes.
So called everything unto me in signs: "It is time!" But I- heard not,
until at last mine abyss moved, and my thought bit me. Ah, abysmal thought,
which art my thought! When shall I find strength to hear thee burrowing,
and no longer tremble? To my very throat throbbeth my heart when I hear
them burrowing! Thy muteness even is like to strangle me, thou abysmal
mute one! As yet have I never ventured to call thee up; it hath been enough
that I- have carried thee about with me! As yet have I not been strong
enough for my final lion-wantonness and playfulness. Sufficiently formidable
unto me hath thy weight ever been: but one day shall I yet find the strength
and the lion's voice which will call thee up! When I shall have surmounted
myself therein, then will I surmount myself also in that which is greater;
and a victory shall be the seal of my perfection!- Meanwhile do I sail
along on uncertain seas; chance flattereth me, smooth-tongued chance; forward
and backward do I gaze-, still see I no end. As yet hath the hour of my
final struggle not come to me- or doth it come to me perhaps just now?
Verily, with insidious beauty do sea and life gaze upon me round about:
O afternoon of my life! O happiness before eventide! O haven upon high
seas! O peace in uncertainty! How I distrust all of you! Verily, distrustful
am I of your insidious beauty! Like the lover am I, who distrusteth too
sleek smiling. As he pusheth the best-beloved before him- tender even in
severity, the jealous one-, so do I push this blissful hour before me.
Away with thee, thou blissful hour! With thee hath there come to me an
involuntary bliss! Ready for my severest pain do I here stand:- at the
wrong time hast thou come! Away with thee, thou blissful hour! Rather harbour
there- with my children! Hasten! and bless them before eventide with my
happiness! There, already approacheth eventide: the sun sinketh. Away-
my happiness!- Thus spake Zarathustra. And he waited for his misfortune
the whole night; but he waited in vain. The night remained clear and calm,
and happiness itself came nigher and nigher unto him. Towards morning,
however, Zarathustra laughed to his heart, and said mockingly: "Happiness
runneth after me. That is because I do not run after women. Happiness,
however, is a woman."
48.
Before Sunrise
O HEAVEN above me, thou pure, thou deep heaven! Thou abyss of light! Gazing
on thee, I tremble with divine desires. Up to thy height to toss myself-
that is my depth! In thy purity to hide myself- that is mine innocence!
The God veileth his beauty: thus hidest thou thy stars. Thou speakest not:
thus proclaimest thou thy wisdom unto me. Mute o'er the raging sea hast
thou risen for me to-day; thy love and thy modesty make a revelation unto
my raging soul. In that thou camest unto me beautiful, veiled in thy beauty,
in that thou spakest unto me mutely, obvious in thy wisdom: Oh, how could
I fail to divine all the modesty of thy soul! Before the sun didst thou
come unto me- the lonesomest one. We have been friends from the beginning:
to us are grief, gruesomeness, and ground common; even the sun is common
to us. We do not speak to each other, because we know too much-: we keep
silent to each other, we smile our knowledge to each other. Art thou not
the light of my fire? Hast thou not the sister-soul of mine insight? Together
did we learn everything; together did we learn to ascend beyond ourselves
to ourselves, and to smile uncloudedly:- -Uncloudedly to smile down out
of luminous eyes and out of miles of distance, when under us constraint
and purpose and guilt stream like rain. And wandered I alone, for what
did my soul hunger by night and in labyrinthine paths? And climbed I mountains,
whom did I ever seek, if not thee, upon mountains? And all my wandering
and mountain-climbing: a necessity was it merely, and a makeshift of the
unhandy one:- to fly only, wanteth mine entire will, to fly into thee!
And what have I hated more than passing clouds, and whatever tainteth thee?
And mine own hatred have I even hated, because it tainted thee! The passing
clouds I detest- those stealthy cats of prey: they take from thee and me
what is common to us- the vast unbounded Yea- and Amen- saying. These mediators
and mixers we detest- the passing clouds: those half-and-half ones, that
have neither learned to bless nor to curse from the heart. Rather will
I sit in a tub under a closed heaven, rather will I sit in the abyss without
heaven, than see thee, thou luminous heaven, tainted with passing clouds!
And oft have I longed to pin them fast with the jagged gold-wires of lightning,
that I might, like the thunder, beat the drum upon their kettle-bellies:-
-An angry drummer, because they rob me of thy Yea and Amen!- thou heaven
above me, thou pure, thou luminous heaven! Thou abyss of light!- because
they rob thee of my Yea and Amen. For rather will I have noise and thunders
and tempest-blasts, than this discreet, doubting cat-repose; and also amongst
men do I hate most of all the soft-treaders, and half-and-half ones, and
the doubting, hesitating, passing clouds. And "he who cannot bless shall
learn to curse!"- this clear teaching dropt unto me from the clear heaven;
this star standeth in my heaven even in dark nights. I, however, am a blesser
and a Yea-sayer, if thou be but around me, thou pure, thou luminous heaven!
Thou abyss of light!- into all abysses do I then carry my beneficent Yea-saying.
A blesser have I become and a Yea-sayer: and therefore strove I long and
was a striver, that I might one day get my hands free for blessing. This,
however, is my blessing: to stand above everything as its own heaven, its
round roof, its azure bell and eternal security: and blessed is he who
thus blesseth! For all things are baptized at the font of eternity, and
beyond good and evil; good and evil themselves, however, are but fugitive
shadows and damp afflictions and passing clouds. Verily, it is a blessing
and not a blasphemy when I teach that "above all things there standeth
the heaven of chance, the heaven of innocence, the heaven of hazard, the
heaven of wantonness." "Of Hazard"- that is the oldest nobility in the
world; that gave I back to all things; I emancipated them from bondage
under purpose. This freedom and celestial serenity did I put like an azure
bell above all things, when I taught that over them and through them, no
"eternal Will"- willeth. This wantonness and folly did I put in place of
that Will, when I taught that "In everything there is one thing impossible-
rationality!" A little reason, to be sure, a germ of wisdom scattered from
star to star- this leaven is mixed in all things: for the sake of folly,
wisdom is mixed in all things! A little wisdom is indeed possible; but
this blessed security have I found in all things, that they prefer- to
dance on the feet of chance. O heaven above me! thou pure, thou lofty heaven!
This is now thy purity unto me, that there is no eternal reason-spider
and reason-cobweb:- -That thou art to me a dancing-floor for divine chances,
that thou art to me a table of the Gods, for divine dice and dice-players!-
But thou blushest? Have I spoken unspeakable things? Have I abused, when
I meant to bless thee? Or is it the shame of being two of us that maketh
thee blush!- Dost thou bid me go and be silent, because now- day cometh?
The world is deep:- and deeper than e'er the day could read. Not everything
may be uttered in presence of day. But day cometh: so let us part! O heaven
above me, thou modest one! thou glowing one! O thou, my happiness before
sunrise! The day cometh: so let us part!- Thus spake Zarathustra.
49.
The Bedwarfing Virtue
1. WHEN Zarathustra was again on the continent, he did not go straightway
to his mountains and his cave, but made many wanderings and questionings,
and ascertained this and that; so that he said of himself jestingly: "Lo,
a river that floweth back unto its source in many windings!" For he wanted
to learn what had taken place among men during the interval: whether they
had become greater or smaller. And once, when he saw a row of new houses,
he marvelled, and said: "What do these houses mean? Verily, no great soul
put them up as its simile! Did perhaps a silly child take them out of its
toy-box? Would that another child put them again into the box! And these
rooms and chambers- can men go out and in there? They seem to be made for
silk dolls; or for dainty-eaters, who perhaps let others eat with them."
And Zarathustra stood still and meditated. At last he said sorrowfully:
"There hath everything become smaller! Everywhere do I see lower doorways:
he who is of my type can still go therethrough, but- he must stoop! Oh,
when shall I arrive again at my home, where I shall no longer have to stoop-
shall no longer have to stoop before the small ones!"- And Zarathustra
sighed, and gazed into the distance.- The same day, however, he gave his
discourse on the bedwarfing virtue.
2. I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open: they
do not forgive me for not envying their virtues. They bite at me, because
I say unto them that for small people, small virtues are necessary- and
because it is hard for me to understand that small people are necessary!
Here am I still like a cock in a strange farm-yard, at which even the hens
peck: but on that account I am not unfriendly to the hens. I am courteous
towards them, as towards all small annoyances; to be prickly towards what
is small, seemeth to me wisdom for hedgehogs. They all speak of me when
they sit around their fire in the evening- they speak of me, but no one
thinketh- of me! This is the new stillness which I have experienced: their
noise around me spreadeth a mantle over my thoughts. They shout to one
another: "What is this gloomy cloud about to do to us? Let us see that
it doth not bring a plague upon us!" And recently did a woman seize upon
her child that was coming unto me: "Take the children away," cried she,
"such eyes scorch children's souls." They cough when I speak: they think
coughing an objection to strong winds- they divine nothing of the boisterousness
of my happiness! "We have not yet time for Zarathustra"- so they object;
but what matter about a time that "hath no time" for Zarathustra? And if
they should altogether praise me, how could I go to sleep on their praise?
A girdle of spines is their praise unto me: it scratcheth me even when
I take it off. And this also did I learn among them: the praiser doeth
as if he gave back; in truth, however, he wanteth more to be given him!
Ask my foot if their lauding and luring strains please it! Verily, to such
measure and ticktack, it liketh neither to dance nor to stand still. To
small virtues would they fain lure and laud me; to the ticktack of small
happiness would they fain persuade my foot. I pass through this people
and keep mine eyes open; they have become smaller, and ever become smaller:-
the reason thereof is their doctrine of happiness and virtue. For they
are moderate also in virtue,- because they want comfort. With comfort,
however, moderate virtue only is compatible. To be sure, they also learn
in their way to stride on and stride forward: that, I call their hobbling.-
Thereby they become a hindrance to all who are in haste. And many of them
go forward, and look backwards thereby, with stiffened necks: those do
I like to run up against. Foot and eye shall not lie, nor give the lie
to each other. But there is much lying among small people. Some of them
will, but most of them are willed. Some of them are genuine, but most of
them are bad actors. There are actors without knowing it amongst them,
and actors without intending it-, the genuine ones are always rare, especially
the genuine actors. Of man there is little here: therefore do their women
masculinise themselves. For only he who is man enough, will- save the woman
in woman. And this hypocrisy found I worst amongst them, that even those
who command feign the virtues of those who serve. "I serve, thou servest,
we serve"- so chanteth here even the hypocrisy of the rulers- and alas!
if the first lord be only the first servant! Ah, even upon their hypocrisy
did mine eyes' curiosity alight; and well did I divine all their fly- happiness,
and their buzzing around sunny window-panes. So much kindness, so much
weakness do I see. So much justice and pity, so much weakness. Round, fair,
and considerate are they to one another, as grains of sand are round, fair,
and considerate to grains of sand. Modestly to embrace a small happiness-
that do they call "submission"! and at the same time they peer modestly
after a new small happiness. In their hearts they want simply one thing
most of all: that no one hurt them. Thus do they anticipate every one's
wishes and do well unto every one. That, however, is cowardice, though
it be called "virtue."- And when they chance to speak harshly, those small
people, then do I hear therein only their hoarseness- every draught of
air maketh them hoarse. Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues have shrewd
fingers. But they lack fists: their fingers do not know how to creep behind
fists. Virtue for them is what maketh modest and tame: therewith have they
made the wolf a dog, and man himself man's best domestic animal. "We set
our chair in the midst"- so saith their smirking unto me- "and as far from
dying gladiators as from satisfied swine." That, however, is- mediocrity,
though it be called moderation.-
3. I pass through this people and let fall many words: but they
know neither how to take nor how to retain them. They wonder why I came
not to revile venery and vice; and verily, I came not to warn against pickpockets
either! They wonder why I am not ready to abet and whet their wisdom: as
if they had not yet enough of wiseacres, whose voices grate on mine ear
like slate-pencils! And when I call out: "Curse all the cowardly devils
in you, that would fain whimper and fold the hands and adore"- then do
they shout: "Zarathustra is godless." And especially do their teachers
of submission shout this;- but precisely in their ears do I love to cry:
"Yea! I am Zarathustra, the godless!" Those teachers of submission! Wherever
there is aught puny, or sickly, or scabby, there do they creep like lice;
and only my disgust preventeth me from cracking them. Well! This is my
sermon for their ears: I am Zarathustra the godless, who saith: "Who is
more godless than I, that I may enjoy his teaching?" I am Zarathustra the
godless: where do I find mine equal? And all those are mine equals who
give unto themselves their Will, and divest themselves of all submission.
I am Zarathustra the godless! I cook every chance in my pot. And only when
it hath been quite cooked do I welcome it as my food. And verily, many
a chance came imperiously unto me: but still more imperiously did my Will
speak unto it,- then did it lie imploringly upon its knees- -Imploring
that it might find home and heart with me, and saying flatteringly: "See,
O Zarathustra, how friend only cometh unto friend!"- But why talk I, when
no one hath mine ears! And so will I shout it out unto all the winds: Ye
ever become smaller, ye small people! Ye crumble away, ye comfortable ones!
Ye will yet perish- -By your many small virtues, by your many small omissions,
and by your many small submissions! Too tender, too yielding: so is your
soil! But for a tree to become great, it seeketh to twine hard roots around
hard rocks! Also what ye omit weaveth at the web of all the human future;
even your naught is a cobweb, and a spider that liveth on the blood of
the future. And when ye take, then is it like stealing, ye small virtuous
ones; but even among knaves honour saith that "one shall only steal when
one cannot rob." "It giveth itself"- that is also a doctrine of submission.
But I say unto you, ye comfortable ones, that it taketh to itself, and
will ever take more and more from you! Ah, that ye would renounce all half-willing,
and would decide for idleness as ye decide for action! Ah, that ye understood
my word: "Do ever what ye will- but first be such as can will. Love ever
your neighbour as yourselves- but first be such as love themselves- -Such
as love with great love, such as love with great contempt!" Thus speaketh
Zarathustra the godless.- But why talk I, when no one hath mine ears! It
is still an hour too early for me here. Mine own forerunner am I among
this people, mine own cockcrow in dark lanes. But their hour cometh! And
there cometh also mine! Hourly do they become smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller,-
poor
herbs! poor earth! And soon shall they stand before me like dry grass and
prairie, and verily, weary of themselves- and panting for fire, more than
for water! O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noontide!-
Running fires will I one day make of them, and heralds with flaming tongues:-
-Herald shall they one day with flaming tongues: It cometh, it is nigh,
the great noontide! Thus spake Zarathustra.
50.
On the Olive-Mount
WINTER, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his
friendly hand-shaking. I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him
alone. Gladly do I run away from him; and when one runneth well, then one
escapeth him! With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind
is calm- to the sunny corner of mine olive-mount. There do I laugh at my
stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he cleareth my house of
flies, and quieteth many little noises. For he suffereth it not if a gnat
wanteth to buzz, or even two of them; also the lanes maketh he lonesome,
so that the moonlight is afraid there at night. A hard guest is he,- but
I honour him, and do not worship, like the tenderlings, the pot-bellied
fire-idol. Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration!-
so willeth my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent,
steaming, steamy fire-idols. Him whom I love, I love better in winter than
in summer; better do I now mock at mine enemies, and more heartily, when
winter sitteth in my house. Heartily, verily, even when I creep into bed-:
there, still laugheth and wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my deceptive
dream laugheth. I, a- creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the
powerful; and if ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore am
I glad even in my winter-bed. A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich one,
for I am jealous of my poverty. And in winter she is most faithful unto
me. With a wickedness do I begin every day: I mock at the winter with a
cold bath: on that account grumbleth my stern house-mate. Also do I like
to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let the heavens emerge
from ashy-grey twilight. For especially wicked am I in the morning: at
the early hour when the pail rattleth at the well, and horses neigh warmly
in grey lanes:- Impatiently do I then wait, that the clear sky may finally
dawn for me, the snow-bearded winter-sky, the hoary one, the white-head,-
-The winter-sky, the silent winter-sky, which often stifleth even its sun!
Did I perhaps learn from it the long clear silence? Or did it learn it
from me? Or hath each of us devised it himself? Of all good things the
origin is a thousandfold,- all good roguish things spring into existence
for joy: how could they always do so- for once only! A good roguish thing
is also the long silence, and to look, like the winter-sky, out of a clear,
round-eyed countenance:- -Like it to stifle one's sun, and one's inflexible
solar will: verily, this art and this winter-roguishness have I learned
well! My best-loved wickedness and art is it, that my silence hath learned
not to betray itself by silence. Clattering with diction and dice, I outwit
the solemn assistants: all those stern watchers, shall my will and purpose
elude. That no one might see down into my depth and into mine ultimate
will- for that purpose did I devise the long clear silence. Many a shrewd
one did I find: he veiled his countenance and made his water muddy, that
no one might see therethrough and thereunder. But precisely unto him came
the shrewder distrusters and nut-crackers: precisely from him did they
fish his best-concealed fish! But the clear, the honest, the transparent-
these are for me the wisest silent ones: in them, so profound is the depth
that even the clearest water doth not- betray it.- Thou snow-bearded, silent,
winter-sky, thou round-eyed whitehead above me! Oh, thou heavenly simile
of my soul and its wantonness! And must I not conceal myself like one who
hath swallowed gold- lest my soul should be ripped up? Must I not wear
stilts, that they may overlook my long legs- all those enviers and injurers
around me? Those dingy, fire-warmed, used-up, green-tinted, ill-natured
souls- how could their envy endure my happiness! Thus do I show them only
the ice and winter of my peaks- and not that my mountain windeth all the
solar girdles around it! They hear only the whistling of my winter-storms:
and know not that I also travel over warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot
south-winds. They commiserate also my accidents and chances:- but my word
saith: "Suffer the chance to come unto me: innocent is it as a little child!"
How could they endure my happiness, if I did not put around it accidents,
and winter-privations, and bear-skin caps, and enmantling snowflakes! -If
I did not myself commiserate their pity, the pity of those enviers and
injurers! -If I did not myself sigh before them, and chatter with cold,
and patiently let myself be swathed in their pity! This is the wise waggish-will
and good-will of my soul, that it concealeth not its winters and glacial
storms; it concealeth not its chilblains either. To one man, lonesomeness
is the flight of the sick one; to another, it is the flight from the sick
ones. Let them hear me chattering and sighing with winter-cold, all those
poor squinting knaves around me! With such sighing and chattering do I
flee from their heated rooms. Let them sympathise with me and sigh with
me on account of my chilblains: "At the ice of knowledge will he yet freeze
to death!"- so they mourn. Meanwhile do I run with warm feet hither and
thither on mine olive-mount: in the sunny corner of mine olive-mount do
I sing, and mock at all pity.- Thus sang Zarathustra.
51.
On Passing-by
THUS slowly wandering through many peoples and divers cities, did Zarathustra
return by round-about roads to his mountains and his cave. And behold,
thereby came he unawares also to the gate of the great city. Here, however,
a foaming fool, with extended hands, sprang forward to him and stood in
his way. It was the same fool whom the people called "the ape of Zarathustra:"
for he had learned from him something of the expression and modulation
of language, and perhaps liked also to borrow from the store of his wisdom.
And the fool talked thus to Zarathustra: O Zarathustra, here is the great
city: here hast thou nothing to seek and everything to lose. Why wouldst
thou wade through this mire? Have pity upon thy foot! Spit rather on the
gate of the city, and- turn back! Here is the hell for anchorites' thoughts:
here are great thoughts seethed alive and boiled small. Here do all great
sentiments decay: here may only rattle-boned sensations rattle! Smellest
thou not already the shambles and cookshops of the spirit? Steameth not
this city with the fumes of slaughtered spirit? Seest thou not the souls
hanging like limp dirty rags?- And they make newspapers also out of these
rags! Hearest thou not how spirit hath here become a verbal game? Loathsome
verbal swill doth it vomit forth!- And they make newspapers also out of
this verbal swill. They hound one another, and know not whither! They inflame
one another, and know not why! They tinkle with their pinchbeck, they jingle
with their gold. They are cold, and seek warmth from distilled waters:
they are inflamed, and seek coolness from frozen spirits; they are all
sick and sore through public opinion. All lusts and vices are here at home;
but here there are also the virtuous; there is much appointable appointed
virtue:- Much appointable virtue with scribe-fingers, and hardy sitting-flesh
and waiting-flesh, blessed with small breast-stars, and padded, haunchless
daughters. There is here also much piety, and much faithful spittle-licking
and spittle-backing, before the God of Hosts. "From on high," drippeth
the star, and the gracious spittle; for the high, longeth every starless
bosom. The moon hath its court, and the court hath its moon-calves: unto
all, however, that cometh from the court do the mendicant people pray,
and all appointable mendicant virtues. "I serve, thou servest, we serve"-
so prayeth all appointable virtue to the prince: that the merited star
may at last stick on the slender breast! But the moon still revolveth around
all that is earthly: so revolveth also the prince around what is earthliest
of all- that, however, is the gold of the shopman. The God of the Hosts
of war is not the God of the golden bar; the prince proposeth, but the
shopman- disposeth! By all that is luminous and strong and good in thee,
O Zarathustra! Spit on this city of shopmen and return back! Here floweth
all blood putridly and tepidly and frothily through all veins: spit on
the great city, which is the great slum where all the scum frotheth together!
Spit on the city of compressed souls and slender breasts, of pointed eyes
and sticky fingers- -On the city of the obtrusive, the brazen-faced, the
pen-demagogues and tongue-demagogues, the overheated ambitious:- Where
everything maimed, ill-famed, lustful, untrustful, over-mellow, sickly-yellow
and seditious, festereth perniciously:- -Spit on the great city and turn
back!- Here, however, did Zarathustra interrupt the foaming fool, and shut
his mouth.- Stop this at once! called out Zarathustra, long have thy speech
and thy species disgusted me! Why didst thou live so long by the swamp,
that thou thyself hadst to become a frog and a toad? Floweth there not
a tainted, frothy, swamp-blood in thine own veins, when thou hast thus
learned to croak and revile? Why wentest thou not into the forest? Or why
didst thou not till the ground? Is the sea not full of green islands? I
despise thy contempt; and when thou warnedst me- why didst thou not warn
thyself? Out of love alone shall my contempt and my warning bird take wing;
but not out of the swamp!- They call thee mine ape, thou foaming fool:
but I call thee my grunting-pig,- by thy grunting, thou spoilest even my
praise of folly. What was it that first made thee grunt? Because no one
sufficiently flattered thee:- therefore didst thou seat thyself beside
this filth, that thou mightest have cause for much grunting,- -That thou
mightest have cause for much vengeance! For vengeance, thou vain fool,
is all thy foaming; I have divined thee well! But thy fools'-word injureth
me, even when thou art right! And even if Zarathustra's word were a hundred
times justified, thou wouldst ever- do wrong with my word! Thus spake Zarathustra.
Then did he look on the great city and sighed, and was long silent. At
last he spake thus: I loathe also this great city, and not only this fool.
Here and there- there is nothing to better, nothing to worsen. Woe to this
great city!- And I would that I already saw the pillar of fire in which
it will be consumed! For such pillars of fire must precede the great noontide.
But this hath its time and its own fate.- This precept, however, give I
unto thee, in parting, thou fool: Where one can no longer love, there should
one- pass by!- Thus spake Zarathustra, and passed by the fool and the great
city.
52.
The Apostates
1. AH, LIETH everything already withered and grey which but lately
stood green and many-hued on this meadow! And how much honey of hope did
I carry hence into my beehives! Those young hearts have already all become
old- and not old even! only weary, ordinary, comfortable:- they declare
it: "We have again become pious." Of late did I see them run forth at early
morn with valorous steps: but the feet of their knowledge became weary,
and now do they malign even their morning valour! Verily, many of them
once lifted their legs like the dancer; to them winked the laughter of
my wisdom:- then did they bethink themselves. Just now have I seen them
bent down- to creep to the cross. Around light and liberty did they once
flutter like gnats and young poets. A little older, a little colder: and
already are they mystifiers, and mumblers and mollycoddles. Did perhaps
their hearts despond, because lonesomeness had swallowed me like a whale?
Did their ear perhaps hearken yearningly-long for me in vain, and for my
trumpet-notes and herald-calls? -Ah! Ever are there but few of those whose
hearts have persistent courage and exuberance; and in such remaineth also
the spirit patient. The rest, however, are cowardly. The rest: these are
always the great majority, the common-place, the superfluous, the far-too
many- those all are cowardly!- Him who is of my type, will also the experiences
of my type meet on the way: so that his first companions must be corpses
and buffoons. His second companions, however- they will call themselves
his believers,- will be a living host, with much love, much folly, much
unbearded veneration. To those believers shall he who is of my type among
men not bind his heart; in those spring-times and many-hued meadows shall
he not believe, who knoweth the fickly faint-hearted human species! Could
they do otherwise, then would they also will otherwise. The half-and-half
spoil every whole. That leaves become withered,- what is there to lament
about that! Let them go and fall away, O Zarathustra, and do not lament!
Better even to blow amongst them with rustling winds,- -Blow amongst those
leaves, O Zarathustra, that everything withered may run away from thee
the faster!-
2. "We have again become pious"- so do those apostates confess;
and some of them are still too pusillanimous thus to confess. Unto them
I look into the eye,- before them I say it unto their face and unto the
blush on their cheeks: Ye are those who again pray! It is however a shame
to pray! Not for all, but for thee, and me, and whoever hath his conscience
in his head. For thee it is a shame to pray! Thou knowest it well: the
faint-hearted devil in thee, which would fain fold its arms, and place
its hands in its bosom, and take it easier:- this faint-hearted devil persuadeth
thee that "there is a God!" Thereby, however, dost thou belong to the light-dreading
type, to whom light never permitteth repose: now must thou daily thrust
thy head deeper into obscurity and vapour! And verily, thou choosest the
hour well: for just now do the nocturnal birds again fly abroad. The hour
hath come for all light-dreading people, the vesper hour and leisure hour,
when they do not- "take leisure." I hear it and smell it: it hath come-
their hour for hunt and procession, not indeed for a wild hunt, but for
a tame, lame, snuffling, soft-treaders', soft-prayers' hunt,- -For a hunt
after susceptible simpletons: all mouse-traps for the heart have again
been set! And whenever I lift a curtain, a night-moth rusheth out of it.
Did it perhaps squat there along with another night-moth? For everywhere
do I smell small concealed communities; and wherever there are closets
there are new devotees therein, and the atmosphere of devotees. They sit
for long evenings beside one another, and say: "Let us again become like
little children and say, 'good God!'"- ruined in mouths and stomachs by
the pious confectioners. Or they look for long evenings at a crafty, lurking
cross-spider, that preacheth prudence to the spiders themselves, and teacheth
that "under crosses it is good for cobweb-spinning!" Or they sit all day
at swamps with angle-rods, and on that account think themselves profound;
but whoever fisheth where there are no fish, I do not even call him superficial!
Or they learn in godly-gay style to play the harp with a hymn-poet, who
would fain harp himself into the heart of young girls:- for he hath tired
of old girls and their praises. Or they learn to shudder with a learned
semi-madcap, who waiteth in darkened rooms for spirits to come to him-
and the spirit runneth away entirely! Or they listen to an old roving howl-
and growl-piper, who hath learned from the sad winds the sadness of sounds;
now pipeth he as the wind, and preacheth sadness in sad strains. And some
of them have even become night-watchmen: they know now how to blow horns,
and go about at night and awaken old things which have long fallen asleep.
Five words about old things did I hear yesternight at the garden-wall:
they came from such old, sorrowful, arid night-watchmen. "For a father
he careth not sufficiently for his children: human fathers do this better!"-
"He is too old! He now careth no more for his children,"- answered the
other night-watchman. "Hath he then children? No one can prove it unless
he himself prove it! I have long wished that he would for once prove it
thoroughly." "Prove? As if he had ever proved anything! Proving is difficult
to him; he layeth great stress on one's believing him." "Ay! Ay! Belief
saveth him; belief in him. That is the way with old people! So it is with
us also!"- -Thus spake to each other the two old night-watchmen and light-scarers,
and tooted thereupon sorrowfully on their horns: so did it happen yesternight
at the garden-wall. To me, however, did the heart writhe with laughter,
and was like to break; it knew not where to go, and sunk into the midriff.
Verily, it will be my death yet- to choke with laughter when I see asses
drunken, and hear night-watchmen thus doubt about God. Hath the time not
long since passed for all such doubts? Who may nowadays awaken such old
slumbering, light-shunning things! With the old Deities hath it long since
come to an end:- and verily, a good joyful Deity-end had they! They did
not "begloom" themselves to death- that do people fabricate! On the contrary,
they- laughed themselves to death once on a time! That took place when
the ungodliest utterance came from a God himself- the utterance: "There
is but one God! Thou shalt have no other gods before me!"- -An old grim-beard
of a God, a jealous one, forgot himself in such wise:- And all the gods
then laughed, and shook upon their thrones, and exclaimed: "Is it not just
divinity that there are gods, but no God?" He that hath an ear let him
hear.- Thus talked Zarathustra in the city he loved, which is surnamed
"The Pied Cow." For from here he had but two days to travel to reach once
more his cave and his animals; his soul, however, rejoiced unceasingly
on account of the nighness of his return home.
53.
The Return Home
O LONESOMENESS! My home, lonesomeness! Too long have I lived wildly in
wild remoteness, to return to thee without tears! Now threaten me with
the finger as mothers threaten; now smile upon me as mothers smile; now
say just: "Who was it that like a whirlwind once rushed away from me?-
-Who when departing called out: 'Too long have I sat with lonesomeness;
there have I unlearned silence!' That hast thou learned now- surely? O
Zarathustra, everything do I know; and that thou wert more forsaken amongst
the many, thou unique one, than thou ever wert with me! One thing is forsakenness,
another matter is lonesomeness: that hast thou now learned! And that amongst
men thou wilt ever be wild and strange: -Wild and strange even when they
love thee: for above all they want to be treated indulgently! Here, however,
art thou at home and house with thyself; here canst thou utter everything,
and unbosom all motives; nothing is here ashamed of concealed, congealed
feelings. Here do all things come caressingly to thy talk and flatter thee:
for they want to ride upon thy back. On every simile dost thou here ride
to every truth. Uprightly and openly mayest thou here talk to all things:
and verily, it soundeth as praise in their ears, for one to talk to all
things- directly! Another matter, however, is forsakenness. For, dost thou
remember, O Zarathustra? When thy bird screamed overhead, when thou stoodest
in the forest, irresolute, ignorant where to go, beside a corpse:- -When
thou spakest: 'Let mine animals lead me! More dangerous have I found it
among men than among animals:'- That was forsakenness! And dost thou remember,
O Zarathustra? When thou sattest in thine isle, a well of wine giving and
granting amongst empty buckets, bestowing and distributing amongst the
thirsty: -Until at last thou alone sattest thirsty amongst the drunken
ones, and wailedst nightly: 'Is taking not more blessed than giving? And
stealing yet more blessed than taking?'- That was forsakenness! And dost
thou remember, O Zarathustra? When thy stillest hour came and drove thee
forth from thyself, when with wicked whispering it said: 'Speak and succumb!'-
-When it disgusted thee with all thy waiting and silence, and discouraged
thy humble courage: That was forsakenness!"- O lonesomeness! My home, lonesomeness!
How blessedly and tenderly speaketh thy voice unto me! We do not question
each other, we do not complain to each other; we go together openly through
open doors. For all is open with thee and clear; and even the hours run
here on lighter feet. For in the dark, time weigheth heavier upon one than
in the light. Here fly open unto me all beings' words and word-cabinets:
here all being wanteth to become words, here all becoming wanteth to learn
of me how to talk. Down there, however- all talking is in vain! There,
forgetting and passing-by are the best wisdom: that have I learned now!
He who would understand everything in man must handle everything. But for
that I have too clean hands. I do not like even to inhale their breath;
alas! that I have lived so long among their noise and bad breaths! O blessed
stillness around me! O pure odours around me! How from a deep breast this
stillness fetcheth pure breath! How it hearkeneth, this blessed stillness!
But down there- there speaketh everything, there is everything misheard.
If one announce one's wisdom with bells, the shopmen in the market-place
will out-jingle it with pennies! Everything among them talketh; no one
knoweth any longer how to understand. Everything falleth into the water;
nothing falleth any longer into deep wells. Everything among them talketh,
nothing succeedeth any longer and accomplisheth itself. Everything cackleth,
but who will still sit quietly on the nest and hatch eggs? Everything among
them talketh, everything is out-talked. And that which yesterday was still
too hard for time itself and its tooth, hangeth today, outchamped and outchewed,
from the mouths of the men of today. Everything among them talketh, everything
is betrayed. And what was once called the secret and secrecy of profound
souls, belongeth to-day to the street-trumpeters and other butterflies.
O human hubbub, thou wonderful thing! Thou noise in dark streets! Now art
thou again behind me:- my greatest danger lieth behind me! In indulging
and pitying lay ever my greatest danger; and all human hubbub wisheth to
be indulged and tolerated. With suppressed truths, with fool's hand and
befooled heart, and rich in petty lies of pity:- thus have I ever lived
among men. Disguised did I sit amongst them, ready to misjudge myself that
I might endure them, and willingly saying to myself: "Thou fool, thou dost
not know men!" One unlearneth men when one liveth amongst them: there is
too much foreground in all men- what can far-seeing, far-longing eyes do
there! And, fool that I was, when they misjudged me, I indulged them on
that account more than myself, being habitually hard on myself, and often
even taking revenge on myself for the indulgence. Stung all over by poisonous
flies, and hollowed like the stone by many drops of wickedness: thus did
I sit among them, and still said to myself: "Innocent is everything petty
of its pettiness!" Especially did I find those who call themselves "the
good," the most poisonous flies; they sting in all innocence, they lie
in all innocence; how could they- be just towards me! He who liveth amongst
the good- pity teacheth him to lie. Pity maketh stifling air for all free
souls. For the stupidity of the good is unfathomable. To conceal myself
and my riches- that did I learn down there: for every one did I still find
poor in spirit. It was the lie of my pity, that I knew in every one. -That
I saw and scented in every one, what was enough of spirit for him, and
what was too much! Their stiff wise men: I call them wise, not stiff- thus
did I learn to slur over words. The grave-diggers dig for themselves diseases.
Under old rubbish rest bad vapours. One should not stir up the marsh. One
should live on mountains. With blessed nostrils do I again breathe mountain-freedom.
Freed at last is my nose from the smell of all human hubbub! With sharp
breezes tickled, as with sparkling wine, sneezeth my soul- sneezeth, and
shouteth self-congratulatingly: "Health to thee!" Thus spake Zarathustra.
54.
The Three Evil Things
1. IN MY dream, in my last morning-dream, I stood today on a promontory-
beyond the world; I held a pair of scales, and weighed the world. Alas,
that the rosy dawn came too early to me: she glowed me awake, the jealous
one! Jealous is she always of the glows of my morning-dream. Measurable
by him who hath time, weighable by a good weigher, attainable by strong
pinions, divinable by divine nutcrackers: thus did my dream find the world:-
My dream, a bold sailor, half-ship, half-hurricane, silent as the butterfly,
impatient as the falcon: how had it the patience and leisure to-day for
world-weighing! Did my wisdom perhaps speak secretly to it, my laughing,
wide-awake day-wisdom, which mocketh at all "infinite worlds"? For it saith:
"Where force is, there becometh number the master: it hath more force."
How confidently did my dream contemplate this finite world, not new-fangledly,
not old-fangledly, not timidly, not entreatingly:- -As if a big round apple
presented itself to my hand, a ripe golden apple, with a coolly-soft, velvety
skin:- thus did the world present itself unto me:- -As if a tree nodded
unto me, a broad-branched, strong-willed tree, curved as a recline and
a foot-stool for weary travellers: thus did the world stand on my promontory:-
-As if delicate hands carried a casket towards me- a casket open for the
delectation of modest adoring eyes: thus did the world present itself before
me today:- -Not riddle enough to scare human love from it, not solution
enough to put to sleep human wisdom:- a humanly good thing was the world
to me to-day, of which such bad things are said! How I thank my morning-dream
that I thus at today's dawn, weighed the world! As a humanly good thing
did it come unto me, this dream and heart-comforter! And that I may do
the like by day, and imitate and copy its best, now will I put the three
worst things on the scales, and weigh them humanly well.- He who taught
to bless taught also to curse: what are the three best cursed things in
the world? These will I put on the scales. Voluptuousness, passion for
power, and selfishness: these three things have hitherto been best cursed,
and have been in worst and falsest repute- these three things will I weigh
humanly well. Well! Here is my promontory, and there is the sea- it rolleth
hither unto me, shaggily and fawningly, the old, faithful, hundred-headed
dog-monster that I love!- Well! Here will I hold the scales over the weltering
sea: and also a witness do I choose to look on- thee, the anchorite-tree,
thee, the strong-odoured, broad-arched tree that I love!- On what bridge
goeth the now to the hereafter? By what constraint doth the high stoop
to the low? And what enjoineth even the highest still- to grow upwards?-
Now stand the scales poised and at rest: three heavy questions have I thrown
in; three heavy answers carrieth the other scale.
2. Voluptuousness: unto all hair-shirted despisers of the body,
a sting and stake; and, cursed as "the world," by all backworldsmen: for
it mocketh and befooleth all erring, misinferring teachers. Voluptuousness:
to the rabble, the slow fire at which it is burnt; to all wormy wood, to
all stinking rags, the prepared heat and stew furnace. Voluptuousness:
to free hearts, a thing innocent and free, the garden-happiness of the
earth, all the future's thanks-overflow to the present. Voluptuousness:
only to the withered a sweet poison; to the lion-willed, however, the great
cordial, and the reverently saved wine of wines. Voluptuousness: the great
symbolic happiness of a higher happiness and highest hope. For to many
is marriage promised, and more than marriage,- -To many that are more unknown
to each other than man and woman:- and who hath fully understood how unknown
to each other are man and woman! Voluptuousness:- but I will have hedges
around my thoughts, and even around my words, lest swine and libertine
should break into my gardens!- Passion for power: the glowing scourge of
the hardest of the heart-hard; the cruel torture reserved for the cruellest
themselves; the gloomy flame of living pyres. Passion for power: the wicked
gadfly which is mounted on the vainest peoples; the scorner of all uncertain
virtue; which rideth on every horse and on every pride. Passion for power:
the earthquake which breaketh and upbreaketh all that is rotten and hollow;
the rolling, rumbling, punitive demolisher of whited sepulchres; the flashing
interrogative-sign beside premature answers. Passion for power: before
whose glance man creepeth and croucheth and drudgeth, and becometh lower
than the serpent and the swine:- until at last great contempt crieth out
of him-, Passion for power: the terrible teacher of great contempt, which
preacheth to their face to cities and empires: "Away with thee!"- until
a voice crieth out of themselves: "Away with me!" Passion for power: which,
however, mounteth alluringly even to the pure and lonesome, and up to self-satisfied
elevations, glowing like a love that painteth purple felicities alluringly
on earthly heavens. Passion for power: but who would call it passion, when
the height longeth to stoop for power! Verily, nothing sick or diseased
is there in such longing and descending! That the lonesome height may not
forever remain lonesome and self-sufficing; that the mountains may come
to the valleys and the winds of the heights to the plains:- Oh, who could
find the right prenomen and honouring name for such longing! "Bestowing
virtue"- thus did Zarathustra. once name the unnamable. And then it happened
also,- and verily, it happened for the first time!- that his word blessed
selfishness, the wholesome, healthy selfishness, that springeth from the
powerful soul:- -From the powerful soul, to which the high body appertaineth,
the handsome, triumphing, refreshing body, around which everything becometh
a mirror: -The pliant, persuasive body, the dancer, whose symbol and epitome
is the self-enjoying soul. Of such bodies and souls the self-enjoyment
calleth itself "virtue." With its words of good and bad doth such self-enjoyment
shelter itself as with sacred groves; with the names of its happiness doth
it banish from itself everything contemptible. Away from itself doth it
banish everything cowardly; it saith: "Bad- that is cowardly!" Contemptible
seem to it the ever-solicitous, the sighing, the complaining, and whoever
pick up the most trifling advantage. It despiseth also all bitter-sweet
wisdom: for verily, there is also wisdom that bloometh in the dark, a night-shade
wisdom, which ever sigheth: "All is vain!" Shy distrust is regarded by
it as base, and every one who wanteth oaths instead of looks and hands:
also all over-distrustful wisdom,- for such is the mode of cowardly souls.
Baser still it regardeth the obsequious, doggish one, who immediately lieth
on his back, the submissive one; and there is also wisdom that is submissive,
and doggish, and pious, and obsequious. Hateful to it altogether, and a
loathing, is he who will never defend himself, he who swalloweth down poisonous
spittle and bad looks, the all-too-patient one, the all-endurer, the all-satisfied
one: for that is the mode of slaves. Whether they be servile before gods
and divine spurnings, or before men and stupid human opinions: at all kinds
of slaves doth it spit, this blessed selfishness! Bad: thus doth it call
all that is spirit-broken, and sordidly-servile- constrained, blinking
eyes, depressed hearts, and the false submissive style, which kisseth with
broad cowardly lips. And spurious wisdom: so doth it call all the wit that
slaves, and hoary-headed and weary ones affect; and especially all the
cunning, spurious-witted, curious-witted foolishness of priests! The spurious
wise, however, all the priests, the world-weary, and those whose souls
are of feminine and servile nature- oh, how hath their game all along abused
selfishness! And precisely that was to be virtue and was to be called virtue-
to abuse selfishness! And "selfless"- so did they wish themselves with
good reason, all those world-weary cowards and cross-spiders! But to all
those cometh now the day, the change, the sword of judgment, the great
noontide: then shall many things be revealed! And he who proclaimeth the
ego wholesome and holy, and selfishness blessed, verily, he, the prognosticator,
speaketh also what he knoweth: "Behold, it cometh, it is night, the great
noontide!" Thus spake Zarathustra.
55.
The Spirit of Gravity
1. MY MOUTHPIECE- is of the people: too coarsely and cordially do
I talk for Angora rabbits. And still stranger soundeth my word unto all
ink-fish and pen-foxes. My hand- is a fool's hand: woe unto all tables
and walls, and whatever hath room for fool's sketching, fool's scrawling!
My foot- is a horse-foot; therewith do I trample and trot over stick and
stone, in the fields up and down, and am bedevilled with delight in all
fast racing. My stomach- is surely an eagle's stomach? For it preferreth
lamb's flesh. Certainly it is a bird's stomach. Nourished with innocent
things, and with few, ready and impatient to fly, to fly away- that is
now my nature: why should there not be something of bird-nature therein!
And especially that I am hostile to the spirit of gravity, that is bird-nature:-
verily, deadly hostile, supremely hostile, originally hostile! Oh, whither
hath my hostility not flown and misflown! Thereof could I sing a song-
- and will sing it: though I be alone in an empty house, and must sing
it to mine own ears. Other singers are there, to be sure, to whom only
the full house maketh the voice soft, the hand eloquent, the eye expressive,
the heart wakeful:- those do I not resemble.-
2. He who one day teacheth men to fly will have shifted all
landmarks; to him will all landmarks themselves fly into the air; the earth
will he christen anew- as "the light body." The ostrich runneth faster
than the fastest horse, but it also thrusteth its head heavily into the
heavy earth: thus is it with the man who cannot yet fly. Heavy unto him
are earth and life, and so willeth the spirit of gravity! But he who would
become light, and be a bird, must love himself:- thus do I teach. Not,
to be sure, with the love of the side and infected, for with them stinketh
even self-love! One must learn to love oneself- thus do I teach- with a
wholesome and healthy love: that one may endure to be with oneself, and
not go roving about. Such roving about christeneth itself "brotherly love";
with these words hath there hitherto been the best lying and dissembling,
and especially by those who have been burdensome to every one. And verily,
it is no commandment for today and tomorrow to learn to love oneself. Rather
is it of all arts the finest, subtlest, last and patientest. For to its
possessor is all possession well concealed, and of all treasure-pits one's
own is last excavated- so causeth the spirit of gravity. Almost in the
cradle are we apportioned with heavy words and worths: "good" and "evil"-
so calleth itself this dowry. For the sake of it we are forgiven for living.
And therefore suffereth one little children to come unto one, to forbid
them betimes to love themselves- so causeth the spirit of gravity. And
we- we bear loyally what is apportioned unto us, on hard shoulders, over
rugged mountains! And when we sweat, then do people say to us: "Yea, life
is hard to bear!" But man himself only is hard to bear! The reason thereof
is that he carrieth too many extraneous things on his shoulders. Like the
camel kneeleth he down, and letteth himself be well laden. Especially the
strong load-bearing man in whom reverence resideth. Too many extraneous
heavy words and worths loadeth he upon himself- then seemeth life to him
a desert! And verily! Many a thing also that is our own is hard to bear!
And many internal things in man are like the oyster- repulsive and slippery
and hard to grasp;- So that an elegant shell, with elegant adornment, must
plead for them. But this art also must one learn: to have a shell, and
a fine appearance, and sagacious blindness! Again, it deceiveth about many
things in man, that many a shell is poor and pitiable, and too much of
a shell. Much concealed goodness and power is never dreamt of; the choicest
dainties find no tasters! Women know that, the choicest of them: a little
fatter a little leaner- oh, how much fate is in so little! Man is difficult
to discover, and unto himself most difficult of all; often lieth the spirit
concerning the soul. So causeth the spirit of gravity. He, however, hath
discovered himself who saith: This is my good and evil: therewith hath
he silenced the mole and the dwarf, who say: "Good for all, evil for all."
Verily, neither do I like those who call everything good, and this world
the best of all. Those do I call the all-satisfied. All-satisfiedness,
which knoweth how to taste everything,- that is not the best taste! I honour
the refractory, fastidious tongues and stomachs, which have learned to
say "I" and "Yea" and "Nay." To chew and digest everything, however- that
is the genuine swine-nature! Ever to say YE-A- that hath only the ass learned,
and those like it!- Deep yellow and hot red- so wanteth my taste- it mixeth
blood with all colours. He, however, who whitewasheth his house, betrayeth
unto me a whitewashed soul. With mummies, some fall in love; others with
phantoms: both alike hostile to all flesh and blood- oh, how repugnant
are both to my taste! For I love blood. And there will I not reside and
abide where every one spitteth and speweth: that is now my taste,- rather
would I live amongst thieves and perjurers. Nobody carrieth gold in his
mouth. Still more repugnant unto me, however, are all lick-spittles; and
the most repugnant animal of man that I found, did I christen "parasite":
it would not love, and would yet live by love. Unhappy do I call all those
who have only one choice: either to become evil beasts, or evil beast-tamers.
Amongst such would I not build my tabernacle. Unhappy do I also call those
who have ever to wait,- they are repugnant to my taste- all the toll-gatherers
and traders, and kings, and other landkeepers and shopkeepers. Verily,
I learned waiting also, and thoroughly so,- but only waiting for myself.
And above all did I learn standing and walking and running and leaping
and climbing and dancing. This however is my teaching: he who wisheth one
day to fly, must first learn standing and walking and running and climbing
and dancing:- one doth not fly into flying! With rope-ladders learned I
to reach many a window, with nimble legs did I climb high masts: to sit
on high masts of perception seemed to me no small bliss;- -To flicker like
small flames on high masts: a small light, certainly, but a great comfort
to cast-away sailors and ship-wrecked ones! By divers ways and wendings
did I arrive at my truth; not by one ladder did I mount to the height where
mine eye roveth into my remoteness. And unwillingly only did I ask my way-
that was always counter to my taste! Rather did I question and test the
ways themselves. A testing and a questioning hath been all my travelling:-
and verily, one must also learn to answer such questioning! That, however,-
is my taste: -Neither a good nor a bad taste, but my taste, of which I
have no longer either shame or secrecy. "This- is now my way,- where is
yours?" Thus did I answer those who asked me "the way." For the way- it
doth not exist! Thus spake Zarathustra.
56.
Old and New Tables
1. HERE do I sit and wait, old broken tables around me and also
new half-written tables. When cometh mine hour? -The hour of my descent,
of my down-going: for once more will I go unto men. For that hour do I
now wait: for first must the signs come unto me that it is mine hour- namely,
the laughing lion with the flock of doves. Meanwhile do I talk to myself
as one who hath time. No one telleth me anything new, so I tell myself
mine own story.
2. When I came unto men, then found I them resting on an old
infatuation: all of them thought they had long known what was good and
bad for men. An old wearisome business seemed to them all discourse about
virtue; and he who wished to sleep well spake of "good" and "bad" ere retiring
to rest. This somnolence did I disturb when I taught that no one yet knoweth
what is good and bad:- unless it be the creating one! -It is he, however,
who createth man's goal, and giveth to the earth its meaning and its future:
he only effecteth it that aught is good or bad. And I bade them upset their
old academic chairs, and wherever that old infatuation had sat; I bade
them laugh at their great moralists, their saints, their poets, and their
saviours. At their gloomy sages did I bid them laugh, and whoever had sat
admonishing as a black scarecrow on the tree of life. On their great grave-highway
did I seat myself, and even beside the carrion and vultures- and I laughed
at all their bygone and its mellow decaying glory. Verily, like penitential
preachers and fools did I cry wrath and shame on all their greatness and
smallness. Oh, that their best is so very small! Oh, that their worst is
so very small! Thus did I laugh. Thus did my wise longing, born in the
mountains, cry and laugh in me; a wild wisdom, verily!- my great pinion-rustling
longing. And oft did it carry me off and up and away and in the midst of
laughter; then flew I quivering like an arrow with sun-intoxicated rapture:
-Out into distant futures, which no dream hath yet seen, into warmer souths
than ever sculptor conceived,- where gods in their dancing are ashamed
of all clothes: (That I may speak in parables and halt and stammer like
the poets: and verily I am ashamed that I have still to be a poet!) Where
all becoming seemed to me dancing of gods, and wantoning of gods, and the
world unloosed and unbridled and fleeing back to itself:- -As an eternal
self-fleeing and re-seeking of one another of many gods, as the blessed
self-contradicting, recommuning, and refraternising with one another of
many gods:- Where all time seemed to me a blessed mockery of moments, where
necessity was freedom itself, which played happily with the goad of freedom:-
Where I also found again mine old devil and arch-enemy, the spirit of gravity,
and all that it created: constraint, law, necessity and consequence and
purpose and will and good and evil:- For must there not be that which is
danced over, danced beyond? Must there not, for the sake of the nimble,
the nimblest,- be moles and clumsy dwarfs?-
3. There was it also where I picked up from the path the word
"Superman," and that man is something that must be surpassed. -That man
is a bridge and not a goal- rejoicing over his noontides and evenings,
as advances to new rosy dawns: -The Zarathustra word of the great noontide,
and whatever else I have hung up over men like purple evening-afterglows.
Verily, also new stars did I make them see, along with new nights; and
over cloud and day and night, did I spread out laughter like a gay-coloured
canopy. I taught them all my poetisation and aspiration: to compose and
collect into unity what is fragment in man, and riddle and fearful chance;-
-As composer, riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance, did I teach them to
create the future, and all that hath been- to redeem by creating. The past
of man to redeem, and every "It was" to transform, until the Will saith:
"But so did I will it! So shall I will it-" -This did I call redemption;
this alone taught I them to call redemption.- - Now do I await my redemption-
that I may go unto them for the last time. For once more will I go unto
men: amongst them will my sun set; in dying will I give them my choicest
gift! From the sun did I learn this, when it goeth down, the exuberant
one: gold doth it then pour into the sea, out of inexhaustible riches,-
-So that the poorest fisherman roweth even with golden oars! For this did
I once see, and did not tire of weeping in beholding it.- - Like the sun
will also Zarathustra go down: now sitteth he here and waiteth, old broken
tables around him, and also new tables- half-written.
4. Behold, here is a new table; but where are my brethren who
will carry it with me to the valley and into hearts of flesh?- Thus demandeth
my great love to the remotest ones: be not considerate of thy neighbour!
Man is something that must be surpassed. There are many divers ways and
modes of surpassing: see thou thereto! But only a buffoon thinketh: "man
can also be overleapt." Surpass thyself even in thy neighbour: and a right
which thou canst seize upon, shalt thou not allow to be given thee! What
thou doest can no one do to thee again. Lo, there is no requital. He who
cannot command himself shall obey. And many a one can command himself,
but still sorely lacketh self-obedience!
5. Thus wisheth the type of noble souls: they desire to have
nothing gratuitously, least of all, life. He who is of the populace wisheth
to live gratuitously; we others, however, to whom life hath given itself-
we are ever considering what we can best give in return! And verily, it
is a noble dictum which saith: "What life promiseth us, that promise will
we keep- to life!" One should not wish to enjoy where one doth not contribute
to the enjoyment. And one should not wish to enjoy! For enjoyment and innocence
are the most bashful things. Neither like to be sought for. One should
have them,- but one should rather seek for guilt and pain!-
6. O my brethren, he who is a firstling is ever sacrificed. Now,
however, are we firstlings! We all bleed on secret sacrificial altars,
we all burn and broil in honour of ancient idols. Our best is still young:
this exciteth old palates. Our flesh is tender, our skin is only lambs'
skin:- how could we not excite old idol-priests! In ourselves dwelleth
he still, the old idol-priest, who broileth our best for his banquet. Ah,
my brethren, how could firstlings fail to be sacrifices! But so wisheth
our type; and I love those who do not wish to preserve themselves, the
down-going ones do I love with mine entire love: for they go beyond.-
7. To be true- that can few be! And he who can, will not! Least
of all, however, can the good be true. Oh, those good ones! Good men never
speak the truth. For the spirit, thus to be good, is a malady. They yield,
those good ones, they submit themselves; their heart repeateth, their soul
obeyeth: he, however, who obeyeth, doth not listen to himself! All that
is called evil by the good, must come together in order that one truth
may be born. O my brethren, are ye also evil enough for this truth? The
daring venture, the prolonged distrust, the cruel Nay, the tedium, the
cutting-into-the-quick- how seldom do these come together! Out of such
seed, however- is truth produced! Beside the bad conscience hath hitherto
grown all knowledge! Break up, break up, ye discerning ones, the old tables!
8. When the water hath planks, when gangways and railings o'erspan
the stream, verily, he is not believed who then saith: "All is in flux."
But even the simpletons contradict him. "What?" say the simpletons, "all
in flux? Planks and railings are still over the stream! "Over the stream
all is stable, all the values of things, the bridges and bearings, all
'good' and 'evil': these are all stable!"- Cometh, however, the hard winter,
the stream-tamer, then learn even the wittiest distrust, and verily, not
only the simpletons then say: "Should not everything- stand still?" "Fundamentally
standeth everything still"- that is an appropriate winter doctrine, good
cheer for an unproductive period, a great comfort for winter-sleepers and
fireside-loungers. "Fundamentally standeth everything still"-: but contrary
thereto, preacheth the thawing wind! The thawing wind, a bullock, which
is no ploughing bullock- a furious bullock, a destroyer, which with angry
horns breaketh the ice! The ice however- - breaketh gangways! O my brethren,
is not everything at present in flux? Have not all railings and gangways
fallen into the water? Who would still hold on to "good" and "evil"? "Woe
to us! Hail to us! The thawing wind bloweth!"- Thus preach, my brethren,
through all the streets!
9. There is an old illusion- it is called good and evil. Around
soothsayers and astrologers hath hitherto revolved the orbit of this illusion.
Once did one believe in soothsayers and astrologers; and therefore did
one believe, "Everything is fate: thou shalt, for thou must!" Then again
did one distrust all soothsayers and astrologers; and therefore did one
believe, "Everything is freedom: thou canst, for thou willest!" O my brethren,
concerning the stars and the future there hath hitherto been only illusion,
and not knowledge; and therefore concerning good and evil there hath hitherto
been only illusion and not knowledge!
10. "Thou shalt not rob! Thou shalt not slay!"- such precepts
were once called holy; before them did one bow the knee and the head, and
take off one's shoes. But I ask you: Where have there ever been better
robbers and slayers in the world than such holy precepts? Is there not
even in all life- robbing and slaying? And for such precepts to be called
holy, was not truth itself thereby- slain? -Or was it a sermon of death
that called holy what contradicted and dissuaded from life?- O my brethren,
break up, break up for me the old tables!
11. It is my sympathy with all the past that I see it is abandoned,-
-Abandoned to the favour, the spirit and the madness of every generation
that cometh, and reinterpreteth all that hath been as its bridge! A great
potentate might arise, an artful prodigy, who with approval and disapproval
could strain and constrain all the past, until it became for him a bridge,
a harbinger, a herald, and a cock-crowing. This however is the other danger,
and mine other sympathy:- he who is of the populace, his thoughts go back
to his grandfather,- with his grandfather, however, doth time cease. Thus
is all the past abandoned: for it might some day happen for the populace
to become master, and drown all time in shallow waters. Therefore, O my
brethren, a new nobility is needed, which shall be the adversary of all
populace and potentate rule, and shall inscribe anew the word "noble" on
new tables. For many noble ones are needed, and many kinds of noble ones,
for a new nobility! Or, as I once said in parable: "That is just divinity,
that there are gods, but no God!"
12. O my brethren, I consecrate you and point you to a new nobility:
ye shall become procreators and cultivators and sowers of the future;-
-Verily, not to a nobility which ye could purchase like traders with traders'
gold; for little worth is all that hath its price. Let it not be your honour
henceforth whence ye come, but whither ye go! Your Will and your feet which
seek to surpass you- let these be your new honour! Verily, not that ye
have served a prince- of what account are princes now!- nor that ye have
become a bulwark to that which standeth, that it may stand more firmly.
Not that your family have become courtly at courts, and that ye have learned-
gay-coloured, like the flamingo- to stand long hours in shallow pools:
(For ability-to-stand is a merit in courtiers; and all courtiers believe
that unto blessedness after death pertaineth- permission-to-sit!) Nor even
that a Spirit called Holy, led your forefathers into promised lands, which
I do not praise: for where the worst of all trees grew- the cross,- in
that land there is nothing to praise!- -And verily, wherever this "Holy
Spirit" led its knights, always in such campaigns did- goats and geese,
and wry-heads and guy-heads run foremost!- O my brethren, not backward
shall your nobility gaze, but outward! Exiles shall ye be from all fatherlands
and forefather-lands! Your children's land shall ye love: let this love
be your new nobility,- the undiscovered in the remotest seas! For it do
I bid your sails search and search! Unto your children shall ye make amends
for being the children of your fathers: all the past shall ye thus redeem!
This new table do I place over you!
13. "Why should one live? All is vain! To live- that is to thresh
straw; to live- that is to burn oneself and yet not get warm.- Such ancient
babbling still passeth for "wisdom"; because it is old, however, and smelleth
mustily, therefore is it the more honoured. Even mould ennobleth.- Children
might thus speak: they shun the fire because it hath burnt them! There
is much childishness in the old books of wisdom. And he who ever "thresheth
straw," why should he be allowed to rail at threshing! Such a fool one
would have to muzzle! Such persons sit down to the table and bring nothing
with them, not even good hunger:- and then do they rail: "All is vain!"
But to eat and drink well, my brethren, is verily no vain art! Break up,
break up for me the tables of the never-joyous ones!
14. "To the clean are all things clean"- thus say the people.
I, however, say unto you: To the swine all things become swinish! Therefore
preach the visionaries and bowed-heads (whose hearts are also bowed down):
"The world itself is a filthy monster." For these are all unclean spirits;
especially those, however, who have no peace or rest, unless they see the
world from the backside- the backworldsmen! To those do I say it to the
face, although it sound unpleasantly: the world resembleth man, in that
it hath a backside,- so much is true! There is in the world much filth:
so much is true! But the world itself is not therefore a filthy monster!
There is wisdom in the fact that much in the world smelleth badly: loathing
itself createth wings, and fountain-divining powers! In the best there
is still something to loathe; and the best is still something that must
be surpassed!- O my brethren, there is much wisdom in the fact that much
filth is in the world!-
15. Such sayings did I hear pious backworldsmen speak to their
consciences, and verily without wickedness or guile,- although there is
nothing more guileful in the world, or more wicked. "Let the world be as
it is! Raise not a finger against it!" "Let whoever will choke and stab
and skin and scrape the people: raise not a finger against it! Thereby
will they learn to renounce the world." "And thine own reason- this shalt
thou thyself stifle and choke; for it is a reason of this world,- thereby
wilt thou learn thyself to renounce the world."- -Shatter, shatter, O my
brethren, those old tables of the pious! Tatter the maxims of the world-maligners!-
16. "He who learneth much unlearneth all violent cravings"- that
do people now whisper to one another in all the dark lanes. "Wisdom wearieth,
nothing is worth while; thou shalt not crave!"- this new table found I
hanging even in the public markets. Break up for me, O my brethren, break
up also that new table! The weary-o'-the-world put it up, and the preachers
of death and the jailer: for lo, it is also a sermon for slavery:- Because
they learned badly and not the best, and everything too early and everything
too fast; because they ate badly: from thence hath resulted their ruined
stomach;- -For a ruined stomach, is their spirit: it persuadeth to death!
For verily, my brethren, the spirit is a stomach! Life is a well of delight,
but to him in whom the ruined stomach speaketh, the father of affliction,
all fountains are poisoned. To discern: that is delight to the lion-willed!
But he who hath become weary, is himself merely "willed"; with him play
all the waves. And such is always the nature of weak men: they lose themselves
on their way. And at last asketh their weariness: "Why did we ever go on
the way? All is indifferent!" To them soundeth it pleasant to have preached
in their ears: "Nothing is worth while! Ye shall not will!" That, however,
is a sermon for slavery. O my brethren, a fresh blustering wind cometh
Zarathustra unto all way-weary ones; many noses will he yet make sneeze!
Even through walls bloweth my free breath, and into prisons and imprisoned
spirits! Willing emancipateth: for willing is creating: so do I teach.
And only for creating shall ye learn! And also the learning shall ye learn
only from me, the learning well!- He who hath ears let him hear!
17. There standeth the boat- thither goeth it over, perhaps into
vast nothingness- but who willeth to enter into this "Perhaps"? None of
you want to enter into the death-boat! How should ye then be world-weary
ones! World-weary ones! And have not even withdrawn from the earth! Eager
did I ever find you for the earth, amorous still of your own earth-weariness!
Not in vain doth your lip hang down:- a small worldly wish still sitteth
thereon! And in your eye- floateth there not a cloudlet of unforgotten
earthly bliss? There are on the earth many good inventions, some useful,
some pleasant: for their sake is the earth to be loved. And many such good
inventions are there, that they are like woman's breasts: useful at the
same time, and pleasant. Ye world-weary ones, however! Ye earth-idlers!
You, shall one beat with stripes! With stripes shall one again make you
sprightly limbs. For if ye be not invalids, or decrepit creatures, of whom
the earth is weary, then are ye sly sloths, or dainty, sneaking pleasure-cats.
And if ye will not again run gaily, then shall ye- pass away! To the incurable
shall one not seek to be a physician: thus teacheth Zarathustra:- so shall
ye pass away! But more courage is needed to make an end than to make a
new verse: that do all physicians and poets know well.-
18. O my brethren, there are tables which weariness framed, and
tables which slothfulness framed, corrupt slothfulness: although they speak
similarly, they want to be heard differently.- See this languishing one!
Only a span-breadth is he from his goal; but from weariness hath he lain
down obstinately in the dust, this brave one! From weariness yawneth he
at the path, at the earth, at the goal, and at himself: not a step further
will he go,- this brave one! Now gloweth the sun upon him, and the dogs
lick at his sweat: but he lieth there in his obstinacy and preferreth to
languish:- -A span-breadth from his goal, to languish! Verily, ye will
have to drag him into his heaven by the hair of his head- this hero! Better
still that ye let him lie where he hath lain down, that sleep may come
unto him, the comforter, with cooling patter-rain. Let him lie, until of
his own accord he awakeneth,- until of his own accord he repudiateth all
weariness, and what weariness hath taught through him! Only, my brethren,
see that ye scare the dogs away from him, the idle skulkers, and all the
swarming vermin:- -All the swarming vermin of the "cultured," that- feast
on the sweat of every hero!-
19. I form circles around me and holy boundaries; ever fewer
ascend with me ever higher mountains: I build a mountain-range out of ever
holier mountains.- But wherever ye would ascend with me, O my brethren,
take care lest a parasite ascend with you! A parasite: that is a reptile,
a creeping, cringing reptile, that trieth to fatten on your infirm and
sore places. And this is its art: it divineth where ascending souls are
weary, in your trouble and dejection, in your sensitive modesty, doth it
build its loathsome nest. Where the strong are weak, where the noble are
all-too-gentle- there buildeth it its loathsome nest; the parasite liveth
where the great have small sore-places. What is the highest of all species
of being, and what is the lowest? The parasite is the lowest species; he,
however, who is of the highest species feedeth most parasites. For the
soul which hath the longest ladder, and can go deepest down: how could
there fail to be most parasites upon it?- -The most comprehensive soul,
which can run and stray and rove furthest in itself; the most necessary
soul, which out of joy flingeth itself into chance:- -The soul in Being,
which plungeth into Becoming; the possessing soul, which seeketh to attain
desire and longing:- -The soul fleeing from itself, which overtaketh itself
in the widest circuit; the wisest soul, unto which folly speaketh most
sweetly:- -The soul most self-loving, in which all things have their current
and counter-current, their ebb and their flow:- oh, how could the loftiest
soul fail to have the worst parasites?
20. O my brethren, am I then cruel? But I say: What falleth,
that shall one also push! Everything of today- it falleth, it decayeth;
who would preserve it! But I- I wish also to push it! Know ye the delight
which rolleth stones into precipitous depths?- Those men of today, see
just how they roll into my depths! A prelude am I to better players, O
my brethren! An example! Do according to mine example! And him whom ye
do not teach to fly, teach I pray you- to fall faster!-
21. I love the brave: but it is not enough to be a swordsman,-
one must also know whereon to use swordsmanship! And often is it greater
bravery to keep quiet and pass by, that thereby one may reserve oneself
for a worthier foe! Ye shall only have foes to be hated; but not foes to
be despised: ye must be proud of your foes. Thus have I already taught.
For the worthier foe, O my brethren, shall ye reserve yourselves: therefore
must ye pass by many a one,- -Especially many of the rabble, who din your
ears with noise about people and peoples. Keep your eye clear of their
For and Against! There is there much right, much wrong: he who looketh
on becometh wroth. Therein viewing, therein hewing- they are the same thing:
therefore depart into the forests and lay your sword to sleep! Go your
ways! and let the people and peoples go theirs!- gloomy ways, verily, on
which not a single hope glinteth any more! Let there the trader rule, where
all that still glittereth is- traders' gold. It is the time of kings no
longer: that which now calleth itself the people is unworthy of kings.
See how these peoples themselves now do just like the traders: they pick
up the smallest advantage out of all kinds of rubbish! They lay lures for
one another, they lure things out of one another,- that they call "good
neighbourliness." O blessed remote period when a people said to itself:
"I will be- master over peoples!" For, my brethren, the best shall rule,
the best also willeth to rule! And where the teaching is different, there-
the best is lacking.
22. If they had- bread for nothing, alas! for what would they
cry! Their maintainment- that is their true entertainment; and they shall
have it hard! Beasts of prey, are they: in their "working"- there is even
plundering, in their "earning"- there is even over-reaching! Therefore
shall they have it hard! Better beasts of prey shall they thus become,
subtler, cleverer, more man-like: for man is the best beast of prey. All
the animals hath man already robbed of their virtues: that is why of all
animals it hath been hardest for man. Only the birds are still beyond him.
And if man should yet learn to fly, alas! to what height- would his rapacity
fly!
23. Thus would I have man and woman: fit for war, the one; fit
for maternity, the other; both, however, fit for dancing with head and
legs. And lost be the day to us in which a measure hath not been danced.
And false be every truth which hath not had laughter along with it!
24. Your marriage-arranging: see that it be not a bad arranging!
Ye have arranged too hastily: so there followeth therefrom- marriage-breaking!
And better marriage-breaking than marriage-bending, marriage-lying!- Thus
spake a woman unto me: "Indeed, I broke the marriage, but first did the
marriage break- me! The badly paired found I ever the most revengeful:
they make every one suffer for it that they no longer run singly. On that
account want I the honest ones to say to one another: "We love each other:
let us see to it that we maintain our love! Or shall our pledging be blundering?"
-"Give us a set term and a small marriage, that we may see if we are fit
for the great marriage! It is a great matter always to be twain." Thus
do I counsel all honest ones; and what would be my love to the Superman,
and to all that is to come, if I should counsel and speak otherwise! Not
only to propagate yourselves onwards but upwards- thereto, O my brethren,
may the garden of marriage help you!
25. He who hath grown wise concerning old origins, lo, he will
at last seek after the fountains of the future and new origins.- O my brethren,
not long will it be until new peoples shall arise and new fountains shall
rush down into new depths. For the earthquake- it choketh up many wells,
it causeth much languishing: but it bringeth also to light inner powers
and secrets. The earthquake discloseth new fountains. In the earthquake
of old peoples new fountains burst forth. And whoever calleth out: "Lo,
here is a well for many thirsty ones, one heart for many longing ones,
one will for many instruments":- around him collecteth a people, that is
to say, many attempting ones. Who can command, who must obey- that is there
attempted! Ah, with what long seeking and solving and failing and learning
and re-attempting! Human society: it is an attempt- so I teach- a long
seeking: it seeketh however the ruler!- -An attempt, my brethren! And no
"contract"! Destroy, I pray you, destroy that word of the soft-hearted
and half-and-half!
26. O my brethren! With whom lieth the greatest danger to the
whole human future? Is it not with the good and just?- -As those who say
and feel in their hearts: "We already know what is good and just, we possess
it also; woe to those who still seek thereafter! And whatever harm the
wicked may do, the harm of the good is the harmfulest harm! And whatever
harm the world-maligners may do, the harm of the good is the harmfulest
harm! O my brethren, into the hearts of the good and just looked some one
once on a time, who said: "They are the Pharisees." But people did not
understand him. The good and just themselves were not free to understand
him; their spirit was imprisoned in their good conscience. The stupidity
of the good is unfathomably wise. It is the truth, however, that the good
must be Pharisees- they have no choice! The good must crucify him who deviseth
his own virtue! That is the truth! The second one, however, who discovered
their country- the country, heart and soil of the good and just,- it was
he who asked: "Whom do they hate most?" The creator, hate they most, him
who breaketh the tables and old values, the breaker,- him they call the
law-breaker. For the good- they cannot create; they are always the beginning
of the end:- -They crucify him who writeth new values on new tables, they
sacrifice unto themselves the future- they crucify the whole human future!
The good- they have always been the beginning of the end.-
27. O my brethren, have ye also understood this word? And what
I once said of the "last man"?- - With whom lieth the greatest danger to
the whole human future? Is it not with the good and just? Break up, break
up, I pray you, the good and just!- O my brethren, have ye understood also
this word?
28. Ye flee from me? Ye are frightened? Ye tremble at this word?
O my brethren, when I enjoined you to break up the good, and the tables
of the good, then only did I embark man on his high seas. And now only
cometh unto him the great terror, the great outlook, the great sickness,
the great nausea, the great seasickness. False shores and false securities
did the good teach you; in the lies of the good were ye born and bred.
Everything hath been radically contorted and distorted by the good. But
he who discovered the country of "man," discovered also the country of
"man's future." Now shall ye be sailors for me, brave, patient! Keep yourselves
up betimes, my brethren, learn to keep yourselves up! The sea stormeth:
many seek to raise themselves again by you. The sea stormeth: all is in
the sea. Well! Cheer up! Ye old seaman-hearts! What of fatherland! Thither
striveth our helm where our children's land is! Thitherwards, stormier
than the sea, stormeth our great longing!-
29. "Why so hard!"- said to the diamond one day the charcoal;
"are we then not near relatives?"- Why so soft? O my brethren; thus do
I ask you: are ye then not- my brethren? Why so soft, so submissive and
yielding? Why is there so much negation and abnegation in your hearts?
Why is there so little fate in your looks? And if ye will not be fates
and inexorable ones, how can ye one day- conquer with me? And if your hardness
will not glance and cut and chip to pieces, how can ye one day- create
with me? For the creators are hard. And blessedness must it seem to you
to press your hand upon millenniums as upon wax,- -Blessedness to write
upon the will of millenniums as upon brass,- harder than brass, nobler
than brass. Entirely hard is only the noblest. This new table, O my brethren,
put I up over you: Become hard!-
30. O thou, my Will! Thou change of every need, my needfulness!
Preserve me from all small victories! Thou fatedness of my soul, which
I call fate! Thou In-me! Over-me! Preserve and spare me for one great fate!
And thy last greatness, my Will, spare it for thy last- that thou mayest
be inexorable in thy victory! Ah, who hath not succumbed to his victory!
Ah, whose eye hath not bedimmed in this intoxicated twilight! Ah, whose
foot hath not faltered and forgotten in victory- how to stand!- -That I
may one day be ready and ripe in the great noon-tide: ready and ripe like
the glowing ore, the lightning-bearing cloud, and the swelling milk-udder:-
-Ready for myself and for my most hidden Will: a bow eager for its arrow,
an arrow eager for its star:- -A star, ready and ripe in its noontide,
glowing, pierced, blessed, by annihilating sun-arrows:- -A sun itself,
and an inexorable sun-will, ready for annihilation in victory! O Will,
thou change of every need, my needfulness! Spare me for one great victory!-
- Thus spake Zarathustra.
57.
The Convalescent
1. ONE morning, not long after his return to his cave, Zarathustra
sprang up from his couch like a madman, crying with a frightful voice,
and acting as if some one still lay on the couch who did not wish to rise.
Zarathustra's voice also resounded in such a manner that his animals came
to him frightened, and out of all the neighbouring caves and lurking-places
all the creatures slipped away- flying, fluttering, creeping or leaping,
according to their variety of foot or wing. Zarathustra, however, spake
these words: Up, abysmal thought out of my depth! I am thy cock and morning
dawn, thou overslept reptile: Up! Up! My voice shall soon crow thee awake!
Unbind the fetters of thine ears: listen! For I wish to hear thee! Up!
Up! There is thunder enough to make the very graves listen! And rub the
sleep and all the dimness and blindness out of thine eyes! Hear me also
with thine eyes: my voice is a medicine even for those born blind. And
once thou art awake, then shalt thou ever remain awake. It is not my custom
to awake great-grandmothers out of their sleep that I may bid them- sleep
on! Thou stirrest, stretchest thyself, wheezest? Up! Up! Not wheeze, shalt
thou,- but speak unto me! Zarathustra calleth thee, Zarathustra the godless!
I, Zarathustra, the advocate of living, the advocate of suffering, the
advocate of the circuit- thee do I call, my most abysmal thought! Joy to
me! Thou comest,- I hear thee! Mine abyss speaketh, my lowest depth have
I turned over into the light! Joy to me! Come hither! Give me thy hand-
- ha! let be! aha!- - Disgust, disgust, disgust- - - alas to me!
2. Hardly, however, had Zarathustra spoken these words, when
he fell down as one dead, and remained long as one dead. When however he
again came to himself, then was he pale and trembling, and remained lying;
and for long he would neither eat nor drink. This condition continued for
seven days; his animals, however, did not leave him day nor night, except
that the eagle flew forth to fetch food. And what it fetched and foraged,
it laid on Zarathustra's couch: so that Zarathustra at last lay among yellow
and red berries, grapes, rosy apples, sweet-smelling herbage, and pine-cones.
At his feet, however, two lambs were stretched, which the eagle had with
difficulty carried off from their shepherds. At last, after seven days,
Zarathustra raised himself upon his couch, took a rosy apple in his hand,
smelt it and found its smell pleasant. Then did his animals think the time
had come to speak unto him. "O Zarathustra," said they, "now hast thou
lain thus for seven days with heavy eyes: wilt thou not set thyself again
upon thy feet? Step out of thy cave: the world waiteth for thee as a garden.
The wind playeth with heavy fragrance which seeketh for thee; and all brooks
would like to run after thee. All things long for thee, since thou hast
remained alone for seven days- step forth out of thy cave! All things want
to be thy physicians! Did perhaps a new knowledge come to thee, a bitter,
grievous knowledge? Like leavened dough layest thou, thy soul arose and
swelled beyond all its bounds.-" -O mine animals, answered Zarathustra,
talk on thus and let me listen! It refresheth me so to hear your talk:
where there is talk, there is the world as a garden unto me. How charming
it is that there are words and tones; are not words and tones rainbows
and seeming bridges 'twixt the eternally separated? To each soul belongeth
another world; to each soul is every other soul a back-world. Among the
most alike doth semblance deceive most delightfully: for the smallest gap
is most difficult to bridge over. For me- how could there be an outside-of-me?
There is no outside! But this we forget on hearing tones; how delightful
it is that we forget! Have not names and tones been given unto things that
man may refresh himself with them? It is a beautiful folly, speaking; therewith
danceth man over everything. How lovely is all speech and all falsehoods
of tones! With tones danceth our love on variegated rainbows.- -"O Zarathustra,"
said then his animals, "to those who think like us, things all dance themselves:
they come and hold out the hand and laugh and flee- and return. Everything
goeth, everything returneth; eternally rolleth the wheel of existence.
Everything dieth, everything blossometh forth again; eternally runneth
on the year of existence. Everything breaketh, everything is integrated
anew; eternally buildeth itself the same house of existence. All things
separate, all things again greet one another; eternally true to itself
remaineth the ring of existence. Every moment beginneth existence, around
every 'Here' rolleth the ball 'There.' The middle is everywhere. Crooked
is the path of eternity."- -O ye wags and barrel-organs! answered Zarathustra,
and smiled once more, how well do ye know what had to be fulfilled in seven
days:- -And how that monster crept into my throat and choked me! But I
bit off its head and spat it away from me. And ye- ye have made a lyre-lay
out of it? Now, however, do I lie here, still exhausted with that biting
and spitting-away, still sick with mine own salvation. And ye looked on
at it all? O mine animals, are ye also cruel? Did ye like to look at my
great pain as men do? For man is the cruellest animal. At tragedies, bull-fights,
and crucifixions hath he hitherto been happiest on earth; and when he invented
his hell, behold, that was his heaven on earth. When the great man crieth-:
immediately runneth the little man thither, and his tongue hangeth out
of his mouth for very lusting. He, however, calleth it his "pity." The
little man, especially the poet- how passionately doth he accuse life in
words! Hearken to him, but do not fail to hear the delight which is in
all accusation! Such accusers of life- them life overcometh with a glance
of the eye. "Thou lovest me?" saith the insolent one; "wait a little, as
yet have I no time for thee." Towards himself man is the cruellest animal;
and in all who call themselves "sinners" and "bearers of the cross" and
"penitents," do not overlook the voluptuousness in their plaints and accusations!
And I myself- do, I thereby want to be man's accuser? Ah, mine animals,
this only have I learned hitherto, that for man his baddest is necessary
for his best,- -That all that is baddest is the best power, and the hardest
stone for the highest creator; and that man must become better and badder:-
Not to this torture-stake was I tied, that I know man is bad,- but I cried,
as no one hath yet cried: "Ah, that his baddest is so very small! Ah, that
his best is so very small!" The great disgust at man- it strangled me and
had crept into my throat: and what the soothsayer had presaged: "All is
alike, nothing is worth while, knowledge strangleth." A long twilight limped
on before me, a fatally weary, fatally intoxicated sadness, which spake
with yawning mouth. "Eternally he returneth, the man of whom thou art weary,
the small man"- so yawned my sadness, and dragged its foot and could not
go to sleep. A cavern, became the human earth to me; its breast caved in;
everything living became to me human dust and bones and mouldering past.
My sighing sat on all human graves, and could no longer arise: my sighing
and questioning croaked and choked, and gnawed and nagged day and night:
-"Ah, man returneth eternally! The small man returneth eternally!" Naked
had I once seen both of them, the greatest man and the smallest man: all
too like one another- all too human, even the greatest man! All too small,
even the greatest man!- that was my disgust at man! And the eternal return
also of the smallest man!- that was my disgust at all existence! Ah, Disgust!
Disgust! Disgust!- - Thus spake Zarathustra, and sighed and shuddered;
for he remembered his sickness. Then did his animals prevent him from speaking
further. "Do not speak further, thou convalescent!"- so answered his animals,
"but go out where the world waiteth for thee like a garden. Go out unto
the roses, the bees, and the flocks of doves! Especially, however, unto
the singing-birds, to learn singing from them! For singing is for the convalescent;
the sound ones may talk. And when the sound also want songs, then want
they other songs than the convalescent." -"O ye wags and barrel-organs,
do be silent!" answered Zarathustra, and smiled at his animals. "How well
ye know what consolation I devised for myself in seven days! That I have
to sing once more- that consolation did I devise for myself, and this convalescence:
would ye also make another lyre-lay thereof?" -"Do not talk further," answered
his animals once more; "rather, thou convalescent, prepare for thyself
first a lyre, a new lyre! For behold, O Zarathustra! For thy new lays there
are needed new lyres. Sing and bubble over, O Zarathustra, heal thy soul
with new lays: that thou mayest bear thy great fate, which hath not yet
been any one's fate! For thine animals know it well, O Zarathustra, who
thou art and must become: behold, thou art the teacher of the eternal return,-
that is now thy fate! That thou must be the first to teach this teaching-
how could this great fate not be thy greatest danger and infirmity! Behold,
we know what thou teachest: that all things eternally return, and ourselves
with them, and that we have already existed times without number, and all
things with us. Thou teachest that there is a great year of Becoming, a
prodigy of a great year; it must, like a sand-glass, ever turn up anew,
that it may anew run down and run out:- -So that all those years are like
one another in the greatest and also in the smallest, so that we ourselves,
in
every great year, are like ourselves in the greatest and also in the smallest.
And if thou wouldst now die, O Zarathustra, behold, we know also how thou
wouldst then speak to thyself:- but thine animals beseech thee not to die
yet! Thou wouldst speak, and without trembling, buoyant rather with bliss,
for a great weight and worry would be taken from thee, thou patientest
one!- 'Now do I die and disappear,' wouldst thou say, 'and in a moment
I am nothing. Souls are as mortal as bodies. But the plexus of causes returneth
in which I am intertwined,- it will again create me! I myself pertain to
the causes of the eternal return. I come again with this sun, with this
earth, with this eagle, with this serpent- not to a new life, or a better
life, or a similar life: -I come again eternally to this identical and
selfsame life, in its greatest and its smallest, to teach again the eternal
return of all things,- -To speak again the word of the great noontide of
earth and man, to announce again to man the Superman. I have spoken my
word. I break down by my word: so willeth mine eternal fate- as announcer
do I succumb! The hour hath now come for the down-goer to bless himself.
Thus- endeth Zarathustra's down-going.'"- - When the animals had spoken
these words they were silent and waited, so that Zarathustra might say
something to them; but Zarathustra did not hear that they were silent.
On the contrary, he lay quietly with closed eyes like a person sleeping,
although he did not sleep; for he communed just then with his soul. The
serpent, however, and the eagle, when they found him silent in such wise,
respected the great stillness around him, and prudently retired.
58.
The Great Longing
O MY soul, I have taught thee to say "today" as "once on a time" and "formerly,"
and to dance thy measure over every Here and There and Yonder. O my soul,
I delivered thee from all by-places, I brushed down from thee dust and
spiders and twilight. O my soul, I washed the petty shame and the by-place
virtue from thee, and persuaded thee to stand naked before the eyes of
the sun. With the storm that is called "spirit" did I blow over thy surging
sea; all clouds did I blow away from it; I strangled even the strangler
called "sin." O my soul, I gave thee the right to say Nay like the storm,
and to say Yea as the open heaven saith Yea: calm as the light remainest
thou, and now walkest through denying storms. O my soul, I restored to
thee liberty over the created and the uncreated; and who knoweth, as thou
knowest, the voluptuousness of the future? O my soul, I taught thee the
contempt which doth not come like worm-eating, the great, the loving contempt,
which loveth most where it contemneth most. O my soul, I taught thee so
to persuade that thou persuadest even the grounds themselves to thee: like
the sun, which persuadeth even the sea to its height. O my soul, I have
taken from thee all obeying and knee-bending and homage-paying; I have
myself given thee the names, "Change of need" and "Fate." O my soul, I
have given thee new names and gay-coloured playthings, I have called thee
"Fate" and "the Circuit of circuits" and "the Navel-string of time" and
"the Azure bell." O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom to drink all
new wines, and also all immemorially old strong wines of wisdom. O my soul,
every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every silence and every
longing:- then grewest thou up for me as a vine. O my soul, exuberant and
heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine with swelling udders and full clusters
of brown golden grapes:- -Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting
from superabundance, and yet ashamed of thy waiting. O my soul, there is
nowhere a soul which could be more loving and more comprehensive and more
extensive! Where could future and past be closer together than with thee?
O my soul, I have given thee everything, and all my hands have become empty
by thee:- and now! Now sayest thou to me, smiling and full of melancholy:
"Which of us oweth thanks?- -Doth the giver not owe thanks because the
receiver received? Is bestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not- pitying?"
O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine over-abundance
itself now stretcheth out longing hands! Thy fulness looketh forth over
raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth: the longing of over-fulness looketh
forth from the smiling heaven of thine eyes! And verily, O my soul! Who
could see thy smiling and not melt into tears? The angels themselves melt
into tears through the over-graciousness of thy smiling. Thy graciousness
and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain and weep: and yet,
O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs.
"Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing?" Thus speakest
thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather smile than
pour forth thy grief- -Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning
thy fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and
vintage-knife! But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple
melancholy, then wilt thou have to sing, O my soul!- Behold, I smile myself,
who foretell thee this: -Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until
all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing,- -Until over calm longing
seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, around the gold of which all
good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:- -Also many large and small animals,
and everything that hath light marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue
paths,- -Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master:
he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife,-
-Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one- for whom future songs
only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the fragrance
of future songs,- -Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest
thou thirstily at all deep echoing wells of consolation, already reposeth
thy melancholy in the bliss of future songs!- - O my soul, now have I given
thee all, and even my last possession, and all my hands have become empty
by thee:- that I bade thee sing, behold, that was my last thing to give!
That I bade thee sing,- say now, say: which of us now- oweth thanks?- Better
still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my soul! And let me thank thee!-
Thus spake Zarathustra.
59.
The Second Dance Song
1. "INTO thine eyes gazed I lately, O Life: gold saw I gleam in
thy night-eyes,- my heart stood still with delight: -A golden bark saw
I gleam on darkened waters, a sinking, drinking, reblinking, golden swing-bark!
At my dance-frantic foot, dost thou cast a glance, a laughing, questioning,
melting, thrown glance: Twice only movedst thou thy rattle with thy little
hands- then did my feet swing with dance-fury.- My heels reared aloft,
my toes they hearkened,- thee they would know: hath not the dancer his
ear- in his toe! Unto thee did I spring: then fledst thou back from my
bound; and towards me waved thy fleeing, flying tresses round! Away from
thee did I spring, and from thy snaky tresses: then stoodst thou there
half-turned, and in thine eye caresses. With crooked glances- dost thou
teach me crooked courses; on crooked courses learn my feet- crafty fancies!
I fear thee near, I love thee far; thy flight allureth me, thy seeking
secureth me:- I suffer, but for thee, what would I not gladly bear! For
thee, whose coldness inflameth, whose hatred misleadeth, whose flight enchaineth,
whose mockery- pleadeth: -Who would not hate thee, thou great bindress,
in-windress, temptress, seekress, findress! Who would not love thee, thou
innocent, impatient, wind-swift, child-eyed sinner! Whither pullest thou
me now, thou paragon and tomboy? And now foolest thou me fleeing; thou
sweet romp dost annoy! I dance after thee, I follow even faint traces lonely.
Where art thou? Give me thy hand! Or thy finger only! Here are caves and
thickets: we shall go astray!- Halt! Stand still! Seest thou not owls and
bats in fluttering fray? Thou bat! Thou owl! Thou wouldst play me foul?
Where are we? From the dogs hast thou learned thus to bark and howl. Thou
gnashest on me sweetly with little white teeth; thine evil eyes shoot out
upon me, thy curly little mane from underneath! This is a dance over stock
and stone: I am the hunter,- wilt thou be my hound, or my chamois anon?
Now beside me! And quickly, wickedly springing! Now up! And over!- Alas!
I have fallen myself overswinging! Oh, see me lying, thou arrogant one,
and imploring grace! Gladly would I walk with thee- in some lovelier place!
-In the paths of love, through bushes variegated, quiet, trim! Or there
along the lake, where gold-fishes dance and swim! Thou art now a-weary?
There above are sheep and sun-set stripes: is it not sweet to sleep- the
shepherd pipes? Thou art so very weary? I carry thee thither; let just
thine arm sink! And art thou thirsty- I should have something; but thy
mouth would not like it to drink!- -Oh, that cursed, nimble, supple serpent
and lurking-witch! Where art thou gone? But in my face do I feel through
thy hand, two spots and red blotches itch! I am verily weary of it, ever
thy sheepish shepherd to be. Thou witch, if I have hitherto sung unto thee,
now shalt thou- cry unto me! To the rhythm of my whip shalt thou dance
and cry! I forget not my whip?- Not I!"-
2. Then did Life answer me thus, and kept thereby her fine ears
closed: "O Zarathustra! Crack not so terribly with thy whip! Thou knowest
surely that noise killeth thought,- and just now there came to me such
delicate thoughts. We are both of us genuine ne'er-do-wells and ne'er-do-ills.
Beyond good and evil found we our island and our green meadow- we two alone!
Therefore must we be friendly to each other! And even should we not love
each other from the bottom of our hearts,- must we then have a grudge against
each other if we do not love each other perfectly? And that I am friendly
to thee, and often too friendly, that knowest thou: and the reason is that
I am envious of thy Wisdom. Ah, this mad old fool, Wisdom! If thy Wisdom
should one day run away from thee, ah! then would also my love run away
from thee quickly."- Thereupon did Life look thoughtfully behind and around,
and said softly: "O Zarathustra, thou art not faithful enough to me! Thou
lovest me not nearly so much as thou sayest; I know thou thinkest of soon
leaving me. There is an old heavy, heavy, booming-clock: it boometh by
night up to thy cave:- -When thou hearest this clock strike the hours at
midnight, then thinkest thou between one and twelve thereon- -Thou thinkest
thereon, O Zarathustra, I know it- of soon leaving me!"- "Yea," answered
I, hesitatingly, "but thou knowest it also"- And I said something into
her ear, in amongst her confused, yellow, foolish tresses. "Thou knowest
that, O Zarathustra? That knoweth no one- -" And we gazed at each other,
and looked at the green meadow o'er which the cool evening was just passing,
and we wept together.- Then, however, was Life dearer unto me than all
my Wisdom had ever been.- Thus spake Zarathustra.
3. One! O man! Take heed! Two! What saith deep midnight's voice
indeed? Three! "I slept my sleep- Four! "From deepest dream I've woke and
plead:- Five! "The world is deep, Six! "And deeper than the day could read.
Seven! "Deep is its woe- Eight! "Joy- deeper still than grief can be: Nine!
"Woe saith: Hence! Go! Ten! "But joys all want eternity- Eleven! "Want
deep profound eternity!" Twelve!
60.
The Seven Seals (OR THE YEA AND AMEN LAY.)
1. IF I be a diviner and full of the divining spirit which wandereth
on high mountain-ridges, 'twixt two seas,- Wandereth 'twixt the past and
the future as a heavy cloud- hostile to sultry plains, and to all that
is weary and can neither die nor live: Ready for lightning in its dark
bosom, and for the redeeming flash of light, charged with lightnings which
say Yea! which laugh Yea! ready for divining flashes of lightning:- -Blessed,
however, is he who is thus charged! And verily, long must he hang like
a heavy tempest on the mountain, who shall one day kindle the light of
the future!- Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity and for the marriage-ring
of rings- the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for
I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity!
2. If ever my wrath hath burst graves, shifted landmarks, or
rolled old shattered tables into precipitous depths: If ever my scorn hath
scattered mouldered words to the winds, and if I have come like a besom
to cross-spiders, and as a cleansing wind to old charnel-houses: If ever
I have sat rejoicing where old gods lie buried, world-blessing, world-loving,
beside the monuments of old world-maligners:- -For even churches and gods'-graves
do I love, if only heaven looketh through their ruined roofs with pure
eyes; gladly do I sit like grass and red poppies on ruined churches- Oh,
how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of rings-
the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should
like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity!
3. If ever a breath hath come to me of the creative breath, and
of the heavenly necessity which compelleth even chances to dance star-dances:
If ever I have laughed with the laughter of the creative lightning, to
which the long thunder of the deed followeth, grumblingly, but obediently:
If ever I have played dice with the gods at the divine table of the earth,
so that the earth quaked and ruptured, and snorted forth fire-streams:-
-For a divine table is the earth, and trembling with new active dictums
and dice-casts of the gods: Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity,
and for the marriage-ring of rings- the ring of the return? Never yet have
I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be
this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O
Eternity!
4. If ever I have drunk a full draught of the foaming spice-
and confection-bowl in which all things are well mixed: If ever my hand
hath mingled the furthest with the nearest, fire with spirit, joy with
sorrow, and the harshest with the kindest: If I myself am a grain of the
saving salt which maketh everything in the confection-bowl mix well:- -For
there is a salt which uniteth good with evil; and even the evilest is worthy,
as spicing and as final over-foaming:- Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of rings- the ring of the return? Never
yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee,
O Eternity!
5. If I be fond of the sea, and all that is sealike, and fondest
of it when it angrily contradicteth me: If the exploring delight be in
me, which impelleth sails to the undiscovered, if the seafarer's delight
be in my delight: If ever my rejoicing hath called out: "The shore hath
vanished,- now hath fallen from me the last chain- The boundless roareth
around me, far away sparkle for me space and time,- well! cheer up! old
heart!"- Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring
of rings- the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for
I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity!
6. If my virtue be a dancer's virtue, and if I have often sprung
with both feet into golden-emerald rapture: If my wickedness be a laughing
wickedness, at home among rose-banks and hedges of lilies: -or in laughter
is all evil present, but it is sanctified and absolved by its own bliss:-
And if it be my Alpha and Omega that everything heavy shall become light,
everybody a dancer, and every spirit a bird: and verily, that is my Alpha
and Omega!- Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring
of rings- the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for
I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity!
7. If ever I have spread out a tranquil heaven above me, and
have flown into mine own heaven with mine own pinions: If I have swum playfully
in profound luminous distances, and if my freedom's avian wisdom hath come
to me:- -Thus however speaketh avian wisdom:- "Lo, there is no above and
no below! Throw thyself about,- outward, backward, thou light one! Sing!
speak no more! -Are not all words made for the heavy? Do not all words
lie to the light ones? Sing! speak no more!"- Oh, how could I not be ardent
for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of rings- the ring of the return?
Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I
love thee, O Eternity!
To Continue to the 4th and Last Part...