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diff --git a/1998-0.txt b/1998-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7648115 --- /dev/null +++ b/1998-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16008 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Thus Spake Zarathustra, by Friedrich Nietzsche + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Thus Spake Zarathustra + A Book for All and None + +Author: Friedrich Nietzsche + +Translator: Thomas Common + +Release Date: December, 1999 [eBook #1998] +[Most recently updated: April 10, 2023] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Sue Asscher and David Widger +Revised by Richard Tonsing. + + +PG Editor’s Note: + +Archaic spelling and punctuation usages have not been changed. +In particular quotations are often not closed for several paragraphs. + +DW + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA *** + + + + +THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA + +A BOOK FOR ALL AND NONE + + +By Friedrich Nietzsche + + +Translated By Thomas Common + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + INTRODUCTION BY MRS FORSTER-NIETZSCHE. + + + THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. + + FIRST PART. + + Zarathustra’s Prologue. + + Zarathustra’s Discourses. + + I. The Three Metamorphoses. + + II. The Academic Chairs of Virtue. + + III. Backworldsmen. + + IV. The Despisers of the Body. + + V. Joys and Passions. + + VI. The Pale Criminal. + + VII. Reading and Writing. + + VIII. The Tree on the Hill. + + IX. The Preachers of Death. + + X. War and Warriors. + + XI. The New Idol. + + XII. The Flies in the Market-place. + + XIII. Chastity. + + XIV. The Friend. + + XV. The Thousand and One Goals. + + XVI. Neighbour-Love. + + XVII. The Way of the Creating One. + + XVIII. Old and Young Women. + + XIX. The Bite of the Adder. + + XX. Child and Marriage. + + XXI. Voluntary Death. + + XXII. The Bestowing Virtue. + + + SECOND PART. + + XXIII. The Child with the Mirror. + + XXIV. In the Happy Isles. + + XXV. The Pitiful. + + XXVI. The Priests. + + XXVII. The Virtuous. + + XXVIII. The Rabble. + + XXIX. The Tarantulas. + + XXX. The Famous Wise Ones. + + XXXI. The Night-Song. + + XXXII. The Dance-Song. + + XXXIII. The Grave-Song. + + XXXIV. Self-Surpassing. + + XXXV. The Sublime Ones. + + XXXVI. The Land of Culture. + + XXXVII. Immaculate Perception. + + XXXVIII. Scholars. + + XXXIX. Poets. + + XL. Great Events. + + XLI. The Soothsayer. + + XLII. Redemption. + + XLIII. Manly Prudence. + + XLIV. The Stillest Hour. + + + THIRD PART. + + XLV. The Wanderer. + + XLVI. The Vision and the Enigma. + + XLVII. Involuntary Bliss. + + XLVIII. Before Sunrise. + + XLIX. The Bedwarfing Virtue. + + L. On the Olive-Mount. + + LI. On Passing-by. + + LII. The Apostates. + + LIII. The Return Home. + + LIV. The Three Evil Things. + + LV. The Spirit of Gravity. + + LVI. Old and New Tables. + + LVII. The Convalescent. + + LVIII. The Great Longing. + + LIX. The Second Dance-Song. + + LX. The Seven Seals. + + + FOURTH AND LAST PART. + + LXI. The Honey Sacrifice. + + LXII. The Cry of Distress. + + LXIII. Talk with the Kings. + + LXIV. The Leech. + + LXV. The Magician. + + LXVI. Out of Service. + + LXVII. The Ugliest Man. + + LXVIII. The Voluntary Beggar. + + LXIX. The Shadow. + + LXX. Noon-Tide. + + LXXI. The Greeting. + + LXXII. The Supper. + + LXXIII. The Higher Man. + + LXXIV. The Song of Melancholy. + + LXXV. Science. + + LXXVI. Among Daughters of the Desert. + + LXXVII. The Awakening. + + LXXVIII. The Ass-Festival. + + LXXIX. The Drunken Song. + + LXXX. The Sign. + + + APPENDIX. + + Notes on “Thus Spake Zarathustra” by Anthony M. Ludovici. + + + + +INTRODUCTION BY MRS FORSTER-NIETZSCHE. + +HOW ZARATHUSTRA CAME INTO BEING. + + +“Zarathustra” is my brother’s most personal work; it is the history of +his most individual experiences, of his friendships, ideals, raptures, +bitterest disappointments and sorrows. Above it all, however, there +soars, transfiguring it, the image of his greatest hopes and remotest +aims. My brother had the figure of Zarathustra in his mind from his very +earliest youth: he once told me that even as a child he had dreamt of +him. At different periods in his life, he would call this haunter of his +dreams by different names; “but in the end,” he declares in a note on +the subject, “I had to do a PERSIAN the honour of identifying him with +this creature of my fancy. Persians were the first to take a broad and +comprehensive view of history. Every series of evolutions, according +to them, was presided over by a prophet; and every prophet had his +‘Hazar,’—his dynasty of a thousand years.” + +All Zarathustra’s views, as also his personality, were early conceptions +of my brother’s mind. Whoever reads his posthumously published writings +for the years 1869–82 with care, will constantly meet with passages +suggestive of Zarathustra’s thoughts and doctrines. For instance, the +ideal of the Superman is put forth quite clearly in all his writings +during the years 1873–75; and in “We Philologists”, the following +remarkable observations occur:— + +“How can one praise and glorify a nation as a whole?—Even among the +Greeks, it was the INDIVIDUALS that counted.” + +“The Greeks are interesting and extremely important because they reared +such a vast number of great individuals. How was this possible? The +question is one which ought to be studied. + +“I am interested only in the relations of a people to the rearing of +the individual man, and among the Greeks the conditions were unusually +favourable for the development of the individual; not by any means owing +to the goodness of the people, but because of the struggles of their +evil instincts. + +“WITH THE HELP OF FAVOURABLE MEASURES GREAT INDIVIDUALS MIGHT BE REARED +WHO WOULD BE BOTH DIFFERENT FROM AND HIGHER THAN THOSE WHO HERETOFORE +HAVE OWED THEIR EXISTENCE TO MERE CHANCE. Here we may still be hopeful: +in the rearing of exceptional men.” + +The notion of rearing the Superman is only a new form of an ideal +Nietzsche already had in his youth, that “THE OBJECT OF MANKIND SHOULD +LIE IN ITS HIGHEST INDIVIDUALS” (or, as he writes in “Schopenhauer as +Educator”: “Mankind ought constantly to be striving to produce great +men—this and nothing else is its duty.”) But the ideals he most revered +in those days are no longer held to be the highest types of men. No, +around this future ideal of a coming humanity—the Superman—the poet +spread the veil of becoming. Who can tell to what glorious heights man +can still ascend? That is why, after having tested the worth of our +noblest ideal—that of the Saviour, in the light of the new valuations, +the poet cries with passionate emphasis in “Zarathustra”: + +“Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, +the greatest and the smallest man:— + +All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily even the greatest +found I—all-too-human!”— + +The phrase “the rearing of the Superman,” has very often been +misunderstood. By the word “rearing,” in this case, is meant the act of +modifying by means of new and higher values—values which, as laws and +guides of conduct and opinion, are now to rule over mankind. In general +the doctrine of the Superman can only be understood correctly in +conjunction with other ideas of the author’s, such as:—the Order +of Rank, the Will to Power, and the Transvaluation of all Values. He +assumes that Christianity, as a product of the resentment of the botched +and the weak, has put in ban all that is beautiful, strong, proud, and +powerful, in fact all the qualities resulting from strength, and that, +in consequence, all forces which tend to promote or elevate life have +been seriously undermined. Now, however, a new table of valuations +must be placed over mankind—namely, that of the strong, mighty, and +magnificent man, overflowing with life and elevated to his zenith—the +Superman, who is now put before us with overpowering passion as the +aim of our life, hope, and will. And just as the old system of valuing, +which only extolled the qualities favourable to the weak, the suffering, +and the oppressed, has succeeded in producing a weak, suffering, and +“modern” race, so this new and reversed system of valuing ought to rear +a healthy, strong, lively, and courageous type, which would be a glory +to life itself. Stated briefly, the leading principle of this new system +of valuing would be: “All that proceeds from power is good, all that +springs from weakness is bad.” + +This type must not be regarded as a fanciful figure: it is not a +nebulous hope which is to be realised at some indefinitely remote +period, thousands of years hence; nor is it a new species (in the +Darwinian sense) of which we can know nothing, and which it would +therefore be somewhat absurd to strive after. But it is meant to be +a possibility which men of the present could realise with all their +spiritual and physical energies, provided they adopted the new values. + +The author of “Zarathustra” never lost sight of that egregious example +of a transvaluation of all values through Christianity, whereby the +whole of the deified mode of life and thought of the Greeks, as well as +strong Romedom, was almost annihilated or transvalued in a comparatively +short time. Could not a rejuvenated Graeco-Roman system of valuing (once +it had been refined and made more profound by the schooling which +two thousand years of Christianity had provided) effect another such +revolution within a calculable period of time, until that glorious type +of manhood shall finally appear which is to be our new faith and hope, +and in the creation of which Zarathustra exhorts us to participate? + +In his private notes on the subject the author uses the expression +“Superman” (always in the singular, by-the-bye), as signifying “the most +thoroughly well-constituted type,” as opposed to “modern man”; above +all, however, he designates Zarathustra himself as an example of the +Superman. In “Ecco Homo” he is careful to enlighten us concerning the +precursors and prerequisites to the advent of this highest type, in +referring to a certain passage in the “Gay Science”:— + +“In order to understand this type, we must first be quite clear in +regard to the leading physiological condition on which it depends: this +condition is what I call GREAT HEALTHINESS. I know not how to express my +meaning more plainly or more personally than I have done already in +one of the last chapters (Aphorism 382) of the fifth book of the ‘Gaya +Scienza’.” + +“We, the new, the nameless, the hard-to-understand,”—it says +there,—“we firstlings of a yet untried future—we require for a new end +also a new means, namely, a new healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, +bolder and merrier than all healthiness hitherto. He whose soul +longeth to experience the whole range of hitherto recognised values +and desirabilities, and to circumnavigate all the coasts of this ideal +‘Mediterranean Sea’, who, from the adventures of his most personal +experience, wants to know how it feels to be a conqueror, and discoverer +of the ideal—as likewise how it is with the artist, the saint, the +legislator, the sage, the scholar, the devotee, the prophet, and the +godly non-conformist of the old style:—requires one thing above all +for that purpose, GREAT HEALTHINESS—such healthiness as one not only +possesses, but also constantly acquires and must acquire, because one +unceasingly sacrifices it again, and must sacrifice it!—And now, after +having been long on the way in this fashion, we Argonauts of the ideal, +more courageous perhaps than prudent, and often enough shipwrecked +and brought to grief, nevertheless dangerously healthy, always healthy +again,—it would seem as if, in recompense for it all, that we have a +still undiscovered country before us, the boundaries of which no one +has yet seen, a beyond to all countries and corners of the ideal known +hitherto, a world so over-rich in the beautiful, the strange, the +questionable, the frightful, and the divine, that our curiosity as well +as our thirst for possession thereof, have got out of hand—alas! that +nothing will now any longer satisfy us!— + +“How could we still be content with THE MAN OF THE PRESENT DAY +after such outlooks, and with such a craving in our conscience and +consciousness? Sad enough; but it is unavoidable that we should look +on the worthiest aims and hopes of the man of the present-day with +ill-concealed amusement, and perhaps should no longer look at them. +Another ideal runs on before us, a strange, tempting ideal full of +danger, to which we should not like to persuade any one, because we +do not so readily acknowledge any one’s RIGHT THERETO: the ideal of +a spirit who plays naively (that is to say involuntarily and from +overflowing abundance and power) with everything that has hitherto +been called holy, good, intangible, or divine; to whom the loftiest +conception which the people have reasonably made their measure of value, +would already practically imply danger, ruin, abasement, or at least +relaxation, blindness, or temporary self-forgetfulness; the ideal of +a humanly superhuman welfare and benevolence, which will often enough +appear INHUMAN, for example, when put alongside of all past seriousness +on earth, and alongside of all past solemnities in bearing, word, tone, +look, morality, and pursuit, as their truest involuntary parody—and +WITH which, nevertheless, perhaps THE GREAT SERIOUSNESS only commences, +when the proper interrogative mark is set up, the fate of the soul +changes, the hour-hand moves, and tragedy begins...” + +Although the figure of Zarathustra and a large number of the leading +thoughts in this work had appeared much earlier in the dreams and +writings of the author, “Thus Spake Zarathustra” did not actually come +into being until the month of August 1881 in Sils Maria; and it was the +idea of the Eternal Recurrence of all things which finally induced my +brother to set forth his new views in poetic language. In regard to his +first conception of this idea, his autobiographical sketch, “Ecce Homo”, +written in the autumn of 1888, contains the following passage:— + +“The fundamental idea of my work—namely, the Eternal Recurrence of +all things—this highest of all possible formulae of a Yea-saying +philosophy, first occurred to me in August 1881. I made a note of the +thought on a sheet of paper, with the postscript: 6,000 feet beyond +men and time! That day I happened to be wandering through the woods +alongside of the lake of Silvaplana, and I halted beside a huge, +pyramidal and towering rock not far from Surlei. It was then that the +thought struck me. Looking back now, I find that exactly two months +previous to this inspiration, I had had an omen of its coming in the +form of a sudden and decisive alteration in my tastes—more particularly +in music. It would even be possible to consider all ‘Zarathustra’ as a +musical composition. At all events, a very necessary condition in its +production was a renaissance in myself of the art of hearing. In a small +mountain resort (Recoaro) near Vicenza, where I spent the spring of +1881, I and my friend and Maestro, Peter Gast—also one who had been +born again—discovered that the phoenix music that hovered over us, wore +lighter and brighter plumes than it had done theretofore.” + +During the month of August 1881 my brother resolved to reveal the +teaching of the Eternal Recurrence, in dithyrambic and psalmodic form, +through the mouth of Zarathustra. Among the notes of this period, we +found a page on which is written the first definite plan of “Thus Spake +Zarathustra”:— + +“MIDDAY AND ETERNITY.” + +“GUIDE-POSTS TO A NEW WAY OF LIVING.” + +Beneath this is written:— + +“Zarathustra born on lake Urmi; left his home in his thirtieth year, +went into the province of Aria, and, during ten years of solitude in the +mountains, composed the Zend-Avesta.” + +“The sun of knowledge stands once more at midday; and the serpent +of eternity lies coiled in its light—: It is YOUR time, ye midday +brethren.” + +In that summer of 1881, my brother, after many years of steadily +declining health, began at last to rally, and it is to this first gush +of the recovery of his once splendid bodily condition that we owe not +only “The Gay Science”, which in its mood may be regarded as a prelude +to “Zarathustra”, but also “Zarathustra” itself. Just as he was +beginning to recuperate his health, however, an unkind destiny brought +him a number of most painful personal experiences. His friends caused +him many disappointments, which were the more bitter to him, inasmuch as +he regarded friendship as such a sacred institution; and for the first +time in his life he realised the whole horror of that loneliness to +which, perhaps, all greatness is condemned. But to be forsaken is +something very different from deliberately choosing blessed loneliness. +How he longed, in those days, for the ideal friend who would thoroughly +understand him, to whom he would be able to say all, and whom he +imagined he had found at various periods in his life from his earliest +youth onwards. Now, however, that the way he had chosen grew ever more +perilous and steep, he found nobody who could follow him: he therefore +created a perfect friend for himself in the ideal form of a majestic +philosopher, and made this creation the preacher of his gospel to the +world. + +Whether my brother would ever have written “Thus Spake Zarathustra” + according to the first plan sketched in the summer of 1881, if he +had not had the disappointments already referred to, is now an idle +question; but perhaps where “Zarathustra” is concerned, we may also say +with Master Eckhardt: “The fleetest beast to bear you to perfection is +suffering.” + +My brother writes as follows about the origin of the first part of +“Zarathustra”:—“In the winter of 1882–83, I was living on the charming +little Gulf of Rapallo, not far from Genoa, and between Chiavari and +Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good; the winter was cold and +exceptionally rainy; and the small inn in which I lived was so close +to the water that at night my sleep would be disturbed if the sea were +high. These circumstances were surely the very reverse of favourable; +and yet in spite of it all, and as if in demonstration of my belief that +everything decisive comes to life in spite of every obstacle, it was +precisely during this winter and in the midst of these unfavourable +circumstances that my ‘Zarathustra’ originated. In the morning I used to +start out in a southerly direction up the glorious road to Zoagli, which +rises aloft through a forest of pines and gives one a view far out into +the sea. In the afternoon, as often as my health permitted, I walked +round the whole bay from Santa Margherita to beyond Porto Fino. This +spot was all the more interesting to me, inasmuch as it was so dearly +loved by the Emperor Frederick III. In the autumn of 1886 I chanced to +be there again when he was revisiting this small, forgotten world +of happiness for the last time. It was on these two roads that all +‘Zarathustra’ came to me, above all Zarathustra himself as a type;—I +ought rather to say that it was on these walks that these ideas waylaid +me.” + +The first part of “Zarathustra” was written in about ten days—that is +to say, from the beginning to about the middle of February 1883. “The +last lines were written precisely in the hallowed hour when Richard +Wagner gave up the ghost in Venice.” + +With the exception of the ten days occupied in composing the first part +of this book, my brother often referred to this winter as the hardest +and sickliest he had ever experienced. He did not, however, mean thereby +that his former disorders were troubling him, but that he was suffering +from a severe attack of influenza which he had caught in Santa +Margherita, and which tormented him for several weeks after his arrival +in Genoa. As a matter of fact, however, what he complained of most was +his spiritual condition—that indescribable forsakenness—to which he +gives such heartrending expression in “Zarathustra”. Even the reception +which the first part met with at the hands of friends and acquaintances +was extremely disheartening: for almost all those to whom he presented +copies of the work misunderstood it. “I found no one ripe for many of my +thoughts; the case of ‘Zarathustra’ proves that one can speak with the +utmost clearness, and yet not be heard by any one.” My brother was very +much discouraged by the feebleness of the response he was given, and as +he was striving just then to give up the practice of taking hydrate +of chloral—a drug he had begun to take while ill with influenza,—the +following spring, spent in Rome, was a somewhat gloomy one for him. +He writes about it as follows:—“I spent a melancholy spring in Rome, +where I only just managed to live,—and this was no easy matter. This +city, which is absolutely unsuited to the poet-author of ‘Zarathustra’, +and for the choice of which I was not responsible, made me inordinately +miserable. I tried to leave it. I wanted to go to Aquila—the opposite +of Rome in every respect, and actually founded in a spirit of enmity +towards that city (just as I also shall found a city some day), as a +memento of an atheist and genuine enemy of the Church—a person very +closely related to me,—the great Hohenstaufen, the Emperor Frederick +II. But Fate lay behind it all: I had to return again to Rome. In the +end I was obliged to be satisfied with the Piazza Barberini, after I had +exerted myself in vain to find an anti-Christian quarter. I fear that +on one occasion, to avoid bad smells as much as possible, I actually +inquired at the Palazzo del Quirinale whether they could not provide a +quiet room for a philosopher. In a chamber high above the Piazza just +mentioned, from which one obtained a general view of Rome and could +hear the fountains plashing far below, the loneliest of all songs +was composed—‘The Night-Song’. About this time I was obsessed by an +unspeakably sad melody, the refrain of which I recognised in the words, +‘dead through immortality.’” + +We remained somewhat too long in Rome that spring, and what with the +effect of the increasing heat and the discouraging circumstances already +described, my brother resolved not to write any more, or in any case, +not to proceed with “Zarathustra”, although I offered to relieve him +of all trouble in connection with the proofs and the publisher. When, +however, we returned to Switzerland towards the end of June, and he +found himself once more in the familiar and exhilarating air of the +mountains, all his joyous creative powers revived, and in a note to me +announcing the dispatch of some manuscript, he wrote as follows: “I have +engaged a place here for three months: forsooth, I am the greatest fool +to allow my courage to be sapped from me by the climate of Italy. Now +and again I am troubled by the thought: WHAT NEXT? My ‘future’ is the +darkest thing in the world to me, but as there still remains a great +deal for me to do, I suppose I ought rather to think of doing this than +of my future, and leave the rest to THEE and the gods.” + +The second part of “Zarathustra” was written between the 26th of June +and the 6th July. “This summer, finding myself once more in the sacred +place where the first thought of ‘Zarathustra’ flashed across my mind, +I conceived the second part. Ten days sufficed. Neither for the second, +the first, nor the third part, have I required a day longer.” + +He often used to speak of the ecstatic mood in which he wrote +“Zarathustra”; how in his walks over hill and dale the ideas would crowd +into his mind, and how he would note them down hastily in a note-book +from which he would transcribe them on his return, sometimes working +till midnight. He says in a letter to me: “You can have no idea of the +vehemence of such composition,” and in “Ecce Homo” (autumn 1888) he +describes as follows with passionate enthusiasm the incomparable mood in +which he created Zarathustra:— + +“—Has any one at the end of the nineteenth century any distinct notion +of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration? If +not, I will describe it. If one had the smallest vestige of superstition +in one, it would hardly be possible to set aside completely the idea +that one is the mere incarnation, mouthpiece or medium of an almighty +power. The idea of revelation in the sense that something becomes +suddenly visible and audible with indescribable certainty and accuracy, +which profoundly convulses and upsets one—describes simply the matter +of fact. One hears—one does not seek; one takes—one does not ask +who gives: a thought suddenly flashes up like lightning, it comes with +necessity, unhesitatingly—I have never had any choice in the matter. +There is an ecstasy such that the immense strain of it is sometimes +relaxed by a flood of tears, along with which one’s steps either rush +or involuntarily lag, alternately. There is the feeling that one is +completely out of hand, with the very distinct consciousness of an +endless number of fine thrills and quiverings to the very toes;—there +is a depth of happiness in which the painfullest and gloomiest do not +operate as antitheses, but as conditioned, as demanded in the sense of +necessary shades of colour in such an overflow of light. There is an +instinct for rhythmic relations which embraces wide areas of forms +(length, the need of a wide-embracing rhythm, is almost the measure of +the force of an inspiration, a sort of counterpart to its pressure and +tension). Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous +outburst of freedom, of absoluteness, of power and divinity. The +involuntariness of the figures and similes is the most remarkable +thing; one loses all perception of what constitutes the figure and +what constitutes the simile; everything seems to present itself as +the readiest, the correctest and the simplest means of expression. +It actually seems, to use one of Zarathustra’s own phrases, as if all +things came unto one, and would fain be similes: ‘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. Here +fly open unto thee all being’s words and word-cabinets; here all being +wanteth to become words, here all becoming wanteth to learn of thee how +to talk.’ This is MY experience of inspiration. I do not doubt but that +one would have to go back thousands of years in order to find some one +who could say to me: It is mine also!—” + +In the autumn of 1883 my brother left the Engadine for Germany and +stayed there a few weeks. In the following winter, after wandering +somewhat erratically through Stresa, Genoa, and Spezia, he landed in +Nice, where the climate so happily promoted his creative powers that +he wrote the third part of “Zarathustra”. “In the winter, beneath the +halcyon sky of Nice, which then looked down upon me for the first time +in my life, I found the third ‘Zarathustra’—and came to the end of my +task; the whole having occupied me scarcely a year. Many hidden corners +and heights in the landscapes round about Nice are hallowed to me by +unforgettable moments. That decisive chapter entitled ‘Old and New +Tables’ was composed in the very difficult ascent from the station +to Eza—that wonderful Moorish village in the rocks. My most creative +moments were always accompanied by unusual muscular activity. The body +is inspired: let us waive the question of the ‘soul.’ I might often have +been seen dancing in those days. Without a suggestion of fatigue I could +then walk for seven or eight hours on end among the hills. I slept well +and laughed well—I was perfectly robust and patient.” + +As we have seen, each of the three parts of “Zarathustra” was written, +after a more or less short period of preparation, in about ten days. +The composition of the fourth part alone was broken by occasional +interruptions. The first notes relating to this part were written while +he and I were staying together in Zurich in September 1884. In the +following November, while staying at Mentone, he began to elaborate +these notes, and after a long pause, finished the manuscript at Nice +between the end of January and the middle of February 1885. My brother +then called this part the fourth and last; but even before, and shortly +after it had been privately printed, he wrote to me saying that he still +intended writing a fifth and sixth part, and notes relating to these +parts are now in my possession. This fourth part (the original MS. of +which contains this note: “Only for my friends, not for the public”) +is written in a particularly personal spirit, and those few to whom he +presented a copy of it, he pledged to the strictest secrecy concerning +its contents. He often thought of making this fourth part public also, +but doubted whether he would ever be able to do so without considerably +altering certain portions of it. At all events he resolved to distribute +this manuscript production, of which only forty copies were printed, +only among those who had proved themselves worthy of it, and it speaks +eloquently of his utter loneliness and need of sympathy in those days, +that he had occasion to present only seven copies of his book according +to this resolution. + +Already at the beginning of this history I hinted at the reasons which +led my brother to select a Persian as the incarnation of his ideal of +the majestic philosopher. His reasons, however, for choosing Zarathustra +of all others to be his mouthpiece, he gives us in the following +words:—“People have never asked me, as they should have done, what the +name Zarathustra precisely means in my mouth, in the mouth of the first +Immoralist; for what distinguishes that philosopher from all others +in the past is the very fact that he was exactly the reverse of an +immoralist. Zarathustra was the first to see in the struggle between +good and evil the essential wheel in the working of things. The +translation of morality into the metaphysical, as force, cause, end in +itself, was HIS work. But the very question suggests its own answer. +Zarathustra CREATED the most portentous error, MORALITY, consequently he +should also be the first to PERCEIVE that error, not only because he +has had longer and greater experience of the subject than any other +thinker—all history is the experimental refutation of the theory of +the so-called moral order of things:—the more important point is that +Zarathustra was more truthful than any other thinker. In his teaching +alone do we meet with truthfulness upheld as the highest virtue—i.e.: +the reverse of the COWARDICE of the ‘idealist’ who flees from reality. +Zarathustra had more courage in his body than any other thinker before +or after him. To tell the truth and TO AIM STRAIGHT: that is the first +Persian virtue. Am I understood?... The overcoming of morality through +itself—through truthfulness, the overcoming of the moralist through his +opposite—THROUGH ME—: that is what the name Zarathustra means in my +mouth.” + +ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE. + +Nietzsche Archives, + +Weimar, December 1905. + + + + +THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. + + + + +FIRST PART. ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES. + + + + +ZARATHUSTRA’S PROLOGUE. + + +1. + +When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of +his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and +solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart +changed,—and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the +sun, and spake thus unto it: + +Thou great star! What would be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for +whom thou shinest! + +For ten years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have +wearied of thy light and of the journey, had it not been for me, mine +eagle, and my serpent. + +But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow and +blessed thee for it. + +Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much +honey; I need hands outstretched to take it. + +I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more become +joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches. + +Therefore must I descend into the deep: as thou doest in the +evening, when thou goest behind the sea, and givest light also to the +nether-world, thou exuberant star! + +Like thee must I GO DOWN, as men say, to whom I shall descend. + +Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even the greatest +happiness without envy! + +Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden +out of it, and carry everywhere the reflection of thy bliss! + +Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again +going to be a man. + +Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going. + +2. + +Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no one meeting him. When he +entered the forest, however, there suddenly stood before him an old man, +who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And thus spake the old man to +Zarathustra: + +“No stranger to me is this wanderer: many years ago passed he by. +Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered. + +Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: wilt thou now carry +thy fire into the valleys? Fearest thou not the incendiary’s doom? + +Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathing lurketh +about his mouth. Goeth he not along like a dancer? + +Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one +is Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers? + +As in the sea hast thou lived in solitude, and it hath borne thee up. +Alas, wilt thou now go ashore? Alas, wilt thou again drag thy body +thyself?” + +Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.” + +“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it +not because I loved men far too well? + +Now I love God: men, I do not love. Man is a thing too imperfect for me. +Love to man would be fatal to me.” + +Zarathustra answered: “What spake I of love! I am bringing gifts unto +men.” + +“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Take rather part of their load, +and carry it along with them—that will be most agreeable unto them: if +only it be agreeable unto thee! + +If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them no more than an alms, +and let them also beg for it!” + +“No,” replied Zarathustra, “I give no alms. I am not poor enough for +that.” + +The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and spake thus: “Then see to it that +they accept thy treasures! They are distrustful of anchorites, and do +not believe that we come with gifts. + +The fall of our footsteps ringeth too hollow through their streets. And +just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before +sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us: Where goeth the thief? + +Go not to men, but stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals! Why not +be like me—a bear amongst bears, a bird amongst birds?” + +“And what doeth the saint in the forest?” asked Zarathustra. + +The saint answered: “I make hymns and sing them; and in making hymns I +laugh and weep and mumble: thus do I praise God. + +With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise the God who is +my God. But what dost thou bring us as a gift?” + +When Zarathustra had heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said: +“What should I have to give thee! Let me rather hurry hence lest I take +aught away from thee!”—And thus they parted from one another, the old +man and Zarathustra, laughing like schoolboys. + +When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: “Could it be +possible! This old saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that +GOD IS DEAD!” + +3. + +When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth the forest, +he found many people assembled in the market-place; for it had been +announced that a rope-dancer would give a performance. And Zarathustra +spake thus unto the people: + +I TEACH YOU THE SUPERMAN. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What +have ye done to surpass man? + +All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye +want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the +beast than surpass man? + +What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the +same shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame. + +Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within you is still +worm. Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of +the apes. + +Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and +phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants? + +Lo, I teach you the Superman! + +The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The +Superman SHALL BE the meaning of the earth! + +I conjure you, my brethren, REMAIN TRUE TO THE EARTH, and believe not +those who speak unto you of superearthly hopes! Poisoners are they, +whether they know it or not. + +Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, +of whom the earth is weary: so away with them! + +Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, +and therewith also those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is now the +dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the +meaning of the earth! + +Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt +was the supreme thing:—the soul wished the body meagre, ghastly, and +famished. Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth. + +Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was +the delight of that soul! + +But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about +your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched +self-complacency? + +Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a +polluted stream without becoming impure. + +Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that sea; in him can your great +contempt be submerged. + +What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great +contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto +you, and so also your reason and virtue. + +The hour when ye say: “What good is my happiness! It is poverty and +pollution and wretched self-complacency. But my happiness should justify +existence itself!” + +The hour when ye say: “What good is my reason! Doth it long for +knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and +wretched self-complacency!” + +The hour when ye say: “What good is my virtue! As yet it hath not made +me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty +and pollution and wretched self-complacency!” + +The hour when ye say: “What good is my justice! I do not see that I am +fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour and fuel!” + +The hour when ye say: “What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on +which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion.” + +Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! would that I had +heard you crying thus! + +It is not your sin—it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto +heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven! + +Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy +with which ye should be inoculated? + +Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!— + +When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called out: “We have +now heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is time now for us to see him!” + And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the rope-dancer, who +thought the words applied to him, began his performance. + +4. + +Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spake +thus: + +Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over +an abyss. + +A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a +dangerous trembling and halting. + +What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what is +lovable in man is that he is an OVER-GOING and a DOWN-GOING. + +I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for they +are the over-goers. + +I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and +arrows of longing for the other shore. + +I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond the stars for going +down and being sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to the earth, that +the earth of the Superman may hereafter arrive. + +I love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh to know in +order that the Superman may hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his own +down-going. + +I love him who laboureth and inventeth, that he may build the house for +the Superman, and prepare for him earth, animal, and plant: for thus +seeketh he his own down-going. + +I love him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will to down-going, +and an arrow of longing. + +I love him who reserveth no share of spirit for himself, but wanteth to +be wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus walketh he as spirit over the +bridge. + +I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny: thus, for +the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on, or live no more. + +I love him who desireth not too many virtues. One virtue is more of a +virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one’s destiny to cling +to. + +I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and doth not give +back: for he always bestoweth, and desireth not to keep for himself. + +I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, and who then +asketh: “Am I a dishonest player?”—for he is willing to succumb. + +I love him who scattereth golden words in advance of his deeds, and +always doeth more than he promiseth: for he seeketh his own down-going. + +I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth the past ones: +for he is willing to succumb through the present ones. + +I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God: for he +must succumb through the wrath of his God. + +I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb +through a small matter: thus goeth he willingly over the bridge. + +I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgetteth himself, and all +things are in him: thus all things become his down-going. + +I love him who is of a free spirit and a free heart: thus is his +head only the bowels of his heart; his heart, however, causeth his +down-going. + +I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark +cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, +and succumb as heralds. + +Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: +the lightning, however, is the SUPERMAN.— + +5. + +When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, +and was silent. “There they stand,” said he to his heart; “there they +laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears. + +Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their +eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or do +they only believe the stammerer? + +They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that +which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them +from the goatherds. + +They dislike, therefore, to hear of ‘contempt’ of themselves. So I will +appeal to their pride. + +I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is +THE LAST MAN!” + +And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people: + +It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ +of his highest hope. + +Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be +poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow +thereon. + +Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of +his longing beyond man—and the string of his bow will have unlearned to +whizz! + +I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing +star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you. + +Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any +star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no +longer despise himself. + +Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN. + +“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”—so +asketh the last man and blinketh. + +The earth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last man +who maketh everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of +the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest. + +“We have discovered happiness”—say the last men, and blink thereby. + +They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need +warmth. One still loveth one’s neighbour and rubbeth against him; for +one needeth warmth. + +Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk +warily. He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones or men! + +A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much +poison at last for a pleasant death. + +One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the +pastime should hurt one. + +One no longer becometh poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still +wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to obey? Both are too burdensome. + +No shepherd, and one herd! Every one wanteth the same; every one is +equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the madhouse. + +“Formerly all the world was insane,”—say the subtlest of them, and +blink thereby. + +They are clever and know all that hath happened: so there is +no end to their raillery. People still fall out, but are soon +reconciled—otherwise it spoileth their stomachs. + +They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures +for the night, but they have a regard for health. + +“We have discovered happiness,”—say the last men, and blink thereby.— + +And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra, which is also +called “The Prologue”: for at this point the shouting and mirth of the +multitude interrupted him. “Give us this last man, O Zarathustra,”—they +called out—“make us into these last men! Then will we make thee a +present of the Superman!” And all the people exulted and smacked their +lips. Zarathustra, however, turned sad, and said to his heart: + +“They understand me not: I am not the mouth for these ears. + +Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too much have I +hearkened unto the brooks and trees: now do I speak unto them as unto +the goatherds. + +Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they +think me cold, and a mocker with terrible jests. + +And now do they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me +too. There is ice in their laughter.” + +6. + +Then, however, something happened which made every mouth mute and every +eye fixed. In the meantime, of course, the rope-dancer had commenced his +performance: he had come out at a little door, and was going along the +rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the +market-place and the people. When he was just midway across, the little +door opened once more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon +sprang out, and went rapidly after the first one. “Go on, halt-foot,” + cried his frightful voice, “go on, lazy-bones, interloper, +sallow-face!—lest I tickle thee with my heel! What dost thou here +between the towers? In the tower is the place for thee, thou shouldst be +locked up; to one better than thyself thou blockest the way!”—And with +every word he came nearer and nearer the first one. When, however, he +was but a step behind, there happened the frightful thing which made +every mouth mute and every eye fixed—he uttered a yell like a devil, +and jumped over the other who was in his way. The latter, however, when +he thus saw his rival triumph, lost at the same time his head and his +footing on the rope; he threw his pole away, and shot downwards faster +than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The market-place +and the people were like the sea when the storm cometh on: they all flew +apart and in disorder, especially where the body was about to fall. + +Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and just beside him fell the +body, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while +consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra +kneeling beside him. “What art thou doing there?” said he at last, “I +knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he draggeth me to +hell: wilt thou prevent him?” + +“On mine honour, my friend,” answered Zarathustra, “there is nothing of +all that whereof thou speakest: there is no devil and no hell. Thy soul +will be dead even sooner than thy body: fear, therefore, nothing any +more!” + +The man looked up distrustfully. “If thou speakest the truth,” said he, +“I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal +which hath been taught to dance by blows and scanty fare.” + +“Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “thou hast made danger thy calling; +therein there is nothing contemptible. Now thou perishest by thy +calling: therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands.” + +When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but +he moved his hand as if he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude. + +7. + +Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market-place veiled itself in +gloom. Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror become +fatigued. Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the +ground, absorbed in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it +became night, and a cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then arose +Zarathustra and said to his heart: + +Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made to-day! It is not a +man he hath caught, but a corpse. + +Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon may be +fateful to it. + +I want to teach men the sense of their existence, which is the Superman, +the lightning out of the dark cloud—man. + +But still am I far from them, and my sense speaketh not unto their +sense. To men I am still something between a fool and a corpse. + +Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways of Zarathustra. Come, thou cold +and stiff companion! I carry thee to the place where I shall bury thee +with mine own hands. + +8. + +When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he put the corpse upon his +shoulders and set out on his way. Yet had he not gone a hundred steps, +when there stole a man up to him and whispered in his ear—and lo! +he that spake was the buffoon from the tower. “Leave this town, O +Zarathustra,” said he, “there are too many here who hate thee. The +good and just hate thee, and call thee their enemy and despiser; the +believers in the orthodox belief hate thee, and call thee a danger to +the multitude. It was thy good fortune to be laughed at: and verily thou +spakest like a buffoon. It was thy good fortune to associate with the +dead dog; by so humiliating thyself thou hast saved thy life to-day. +Depart, however, from this town,—or to-morrow I shall jump over thee, +a living man over a dead one.” And when he had said this, the buffoon +vanished; Zarathustra, however, went on through the dark streets. + +At the gate of the town the grave-diggers met him: they shone their +torch on his face, and, recognising Zarathustra, they sorely derided +him. “Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog: a fine thing that +Zarathustra hath turned a grave-digger! For our hands are too cleanly +for that roast. Will Zarathustra steal the bite from the devil? Well +then, good luck to the repast! If only the devil is not a better thief +than Zarathustra!—he will steal them both, he will eat them both!” And +they laughed among themselves, and put their heads together. + +Zarathustra made no answer thereto, but went on his way. When he had +gone on for two hours, past forests and swamps, he had heard too much of +the hungry howling of the wolves, and he himself became a-hungry. So he +halted at a lonely house in which a light was burning. + +“Hunger attacketh me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. Among forests +and swamps my hunger attacketh me, and late in the night. + +“Strange humours hath my hunger. Often it cometh to me only after a +repast, and all day it hath failed to come: where hath it been?” + +And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. An old man +appeared, who carried a light, and asked: “Who cometh unto me and my bad +sleep?” + +“A living man and a dead one,” said Zarathustra. “Give me something to +eat and drink, I forgot it during the day. He that feedeth the hungry +refresheth his own soul, saith wisdom.” + +The old man withdrew, but came back immediately and offered Zarathustra +bread and wine. “A bad country for the hungry,” said he; “that is why +I live here. Animal and man come unto me, the anchorite. But bid thy +companion eat and drink also, he is wearier than thou.” Zarathustra +answered: “My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him +to eat.” “That doth not concern me,” said the old man sullenly; “he +that knocketh at my door must take what I offer him. Eat, and fare ye +well!”— + +Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for two hours, trusting to the path +and the light of the stars: for he was an experienced night-walker, and +liked to look into the face of all that slept. When the morning dawned, +however, Zarathustra found himself in a thick forest, and no path was +any longer visible. He then put the dead man in a hollow tree at his +head—for he wanted to protect him from the wolves—and laid himself +down on the ground and moss. And immediately he fell asleep, tired in +body, but with a tranquil soul. + +9. + +Long slept Zarathustra; and not only the rosy dawn passed over his head, +but also the morning. At last, however, his eyes opened, and amazedly he +gazed into the forest and the stillness, amazedly he gazed into himself. +Then he arose quickly, like a seafarer who all at once seeth the land; +and he shouted for joy: for he saw a new truth. And he spake thus to his +heart: + +A light hath dawned upon me: I need companions—living ones; not dead +companions and corpses, which I carry with me where I will. + +But I need living companions, who will follow me because they want to +follow themselves—and to the place where I will. + +A light hath dawned upon me. Not to the people is Zarathustra to speak, +but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be the herd’s herdsman and +hound! + +To allure many from the herd—for that purpose have I come. The people +and the herd must be angry with me: a robber shall Zarathustra be called +by the herdsmen. + +Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the good and just. Herdsmen, I +say, but they call themselves the believers in the orthodox belief. + +Behold the good and just! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up +their tables of values, the breaker, the law-breaker:—he, however, is +the creator. + +Behold the believers of all beliefs! Whom do they hate most? Him who +breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the law-breaker—he, +however, is the creator. + +Companions, the creator seeketh, not corpses—and not herds or believers +either. Fellow-creators the creator seeketh—those who grave new values +on new tables. + +Companions, the creator seeketh, and fellow-reapers: for everything is +ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacketh the hundred sickles: so he +plucketh the ears of corn and is vexed. + +Companions, the creator seeketh, and such as know how to whet their +sickles. Destroyers, will they be called, and despisers of good and +evil. But they are the reapers and rejoicers. + +Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh; fellow-reapers and +fellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do with herds and +herdsmen and corpses! + +And thou, my first companion, rest in peace! Well have I buried thee in +thy hollow tree; well have I hid thee from the wolves. + +But I part from thee; the time hath arrived. ‘Twixt rosy dawn and rosy +dawn there came unto me a new truth. + +I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to be a grave-digger. Not any more +will I discourse unto the people; for the last time have I spoken unto +the dead. + +With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers will I associate: the +rainbow will I show them, and all the stairs to the Superman. + +To the lone-dwellers will I sing my song, and to the twain-dwellers; +and unto him who hath still ears for the unheard, will I make the heart +heavy with my happiness. + +I make for my goal, I follow my course; over the loitering and tardy +will I leap. Thus let my on-going be their down-going! + +10. + +This had Zarathustra said to his heart when the sun stood at noontide. +Then he looked inquiringly aloft,—for he heard above him the sharp call +of a bird. And behold! An eagle swept through the air in wide circles, +and on it hung a serpent, not like a prey, but like a friend: for it +kept itself coiled round the eagle’s neck. + +“They are mine animals,” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his heart. + +“The proudest animal under the sun, and the wisest animal under the +sun,—they have come out to reconnoitre. + +They want to know whether Zarathustra still liveth. Verily, do I still +live? + +More dangerous have I found it among men than among animals; in +dangerous paths goeth Zarathustra. Let mine animals lead me!” + +When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered the words of the saint in +the forest. Then he sighed and spake thus to his heart: + +“Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise from the very heart, +like my serpent! + +But I am asking the impossible. Therefore do I ask my pride to go always +with my wisdom! + +And if my wisdom should some day forsake me:—alas! it loveth to fly +away!—may my pride then fly with my folly!” + +Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going. + + + + +ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES. + + + + +I. THE THREE METAMORPHOSES. + + +Three metamorphoses of the spirit do I designate to you: how the spirit +becometh a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last a child. + +Many heavy things are there for the spirit, the strong load-bearing +spirit in which reverence dwelleth: for the heavy and the heaviest +longeth its strength. + +What is heavy? so asketh the load-bearing spirit; then kneeleth it down +like the camel, and wanteth to be well laden. + +What is the heaviest thing, ye heroes? asketh the load-bearing spirit, +that I may take it upon me and rejoice in my strength. + +Is it not this: To humiliate oneself in order to mortify one’s pride? To +exhibit one’s folly in order to mock at one’s wisdom? + +Or is it this: To desert our cause when it celebrateth its triumph? To +ascend high mountains to tempt the tempter? + +Or is it this: To feed on the acorns and grass of knowledge, and for the +sake of truth to suffer hunger of soul? + +Or is it this: To be sick and dismiss comforters, and make friends of +the deaf, who never hear thy requests? + +Or is it this: To go into foul water when it is the water of truth, and +not disclaim cold frogs and hot toads? + +Or is it this: To love those who despise us, and give one’s hand to the +phantom when it is going to frighten us? + +All these heaviest things the load-bearing spirit taketh upon itself: +and like the camel, which, when laden, hasteneth into the wilderness, so +hasteneth the spirit into its wilderness. + +But in the loneliest wilderness happeneth the second metamorphosis: here +the spirit becometh a lion; freedom will it capture, and lordship in its +own wilderness. + +Its last Lord it here seeketh: hostile will it be to him, and to its +last God; for victory will it struggle with the great dragon. + +What is the great dragon which the spirit is no longer inclined to call +Lord and God? “Thou shalt,” is the great dragon called. But the spirit +of the lion saith, “I will.” + +“Thou shalt,” lieth in its path, sparkling with gold—a scale-covered +beast; and on every scale glittereth golden, “Thou shalt!” + +The values of a thousand years glitter on those scales, and +thus speaketh the mightiest of all dragons: “All the values of +things—glitter on me. + +All values have already been created, and all created values—do I +represent. Verily, there shall be no ‘I will’ any more.” Thus speaketh +the dragon. + +My brethren, wherefore is there need of the lion in the spirit? Why +sufficeth not the beast of burden, which renounceth and is reverent? + +To create new values—that, even the lion cannot yet accomplish: but to +create itself freedom for new creating—that can the might of the lion +do. + +To create itself freedom, and give a holy Nay even unto duty: for that, +my brethren, there is need of the lion. + +To assume the right to new values—that is the most formidable +assumption for a load-bearing and reverent spirit. Verily, unto such a +spirit it is preying, and the work of a beast of prey. + +As its holiest, it once loved “Thou shalt”: now is it forced to find +illusion and arbitrariness even in the holiest things, that it may +capture freedom from its love: the lion is needed for this capture. + +But tell me, my brethren, what the child can do, which even the lion +could not do? Why hath the preying lion still to become a child? + +Innocence is the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a +self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea. + +Aye, for the game of creating, my brethren, there is needed a holy Yea +unto life: ITS OWN will, willeth now the spirit; HIS OWN world winneth +the world’s outcast. + +Three metamorphoses of the spirit have I designated to you: how the +spirit became a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last a child.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. And at that time he abode in the town which is +called The Pied Cow. + + + + +II. THE ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF VIRTUE. + + +People commended unto Zarathustra a wise man, as one who could discourse +well about sleep and virtue: greatly was he honoured and rewarded for +it, and all the youths sat before his chair. To him went Zarathustra, +and sat among the youths before his chair. And thus spake the wise man: + +Respect and modesty in presence of sleep! That is the first thing! And +to go out of the way of all who sleep badly and keep awake at night! + +Modest is even the thief in presence of sleep: he always stealeth softly +through the night. Immodest, however, is the night-watchman; immodestly +he carrieth his horn. + +No small art is it to sleep: it is necessary for that purpose to keep +awake all day. + +Ten times a day must thou overcome thyself: that causeth wholesome +weariness, and is poppy to the soul. + +Ten times must thou reconcile again with thyself; for overcoming is +bitterness, and badly sleep the unreconciled. + +Ten truths must thou find during the day; otherwise wilt thou seek truth +during the night, and thy soul will have been hungry. + +Ten times must thou laugh during the day, and be cheerful; otherwise thy +stomach, the father of affliction, will disturb thee in the night. + +Few people know it, but one must have all the virtues in order to sleep +well. Shall I bear false witness? Shall I commit adultery? + +Shall I covet my neighbour’s maidservant? All that would ill accord with +good sleep. + +And even if one have all the virtues, there is still one thing needful: +to send the virtues themselves to sleep at the right time. + +That they may not quarrel with one another, the good females! And about +thee, thou unhappy one! + +Peace with God and thy neighbour: so desireth good sleep. And peace also +with thy neighbour’s devil! Otherwise it will haunt thee in the night. + +Honour to the government, and obedience, and also to the crooked +government! So desireth good sleep. How can I help it, if power like to +walk on crooked legs? + +He who leadeth his sheep to the greenest pasture, shall always be for me +the best shepherd: so doth it accord with good sleep. + +Many honours I want not, nor great treasures: they excite the spleen. +But it is bad sleeping without a good name and a little treasure. + +A small company is more welcome to me than a bad one: but they must come +and go at the right time. So doth it accord with good sleep. + +Well, also, do the poor in spirit please me: they promote sleep. Blessed +are they, especially if one always give in to them. + +Thus passeth the day unto the virtuous. When night cometh, then take I +good care not to summon sleep. It disliketh to be summoned—sleep, the +lord of the virtues! + +But I think of what I have done and thought during the day. Thus +ruminating, patient as a cow, I ask myself: What were thy ten +overcomings? + +And what were the ten reconciliations, and the ten truths, and the ten +laughters with which my heart enjoyed itself? + +Thus pondering, and cradled by forty thoughts, it overtaketh me all at +once—sleep, the unsummoned, the lord of the virtues. + +Sleep tappeth on mine eye, and it turneth heavy. Sleep toucheth my +mouth, and it remaineth open. + +Verily, on soft soles doth it come to me, the dearest of thieves, and +stealeth from me my thoughts: stupid do I then stand, like this academic +chair. + +But not much longer do I then stand: I already lie.— + +When Zarathustra heard the wise man thus speak, he laughed in his heart: +for thereby had a light dawned upon him. And thus spake he to his heart: + +A fool seemeth this wise man with his forty thoughts: but I believe he +knoweth well how to sleep. + +Happy even is he who liveth near this wise man! Such sleep is +contagious—even through a thick wall it is contagious. + +A magic resideth even in his academic chair. And not in vain did the +youths sit before the preacher of virtue. + +His wisdom is to keep awake in order to sleep well. And verily, if +life had no sense, and had I to choose nonsense, this would be the +desirablest nonsense for me also. + +Now know I well what people sought formerly above all else when they +sought teachers of virtue. Good sleep they sought for themselves, and +poppy-head virtues to promote it! + +To all those belauded sages of the academic chairs, wisdom was sleep +without dreams: they knew no higher significance of life. + +Even at present, to be sure, there are some like this preacher of +virtue, and not always so honourable: but their time is past. And not +much longer do they stand: there they already lie. + +Blessed are those drowsy ones: for they shall soon nod to sleep.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +III. BACKWORLDSMEN. + + +Once on a time, Zarathustra also cast his fancy beyond man, like all +backworldsmen. The work of a suffering and tortured God, did the world +then seem to me. + +The dream—and diction—of a God, did the world then seem to me; +coloured vapours before the eyes of a divinely dissatisfied one. + +Good and evil, and joy and woe, and I and thou—coloured vapours did +they seem to me before creative eyes. The creator wished to look away +from himself,—thereupon he created the world. + +Intoxicating joy is it for the sufferer to look away from his suffering +and forget himself. Intoxicating joy and self-forgetting, did the world +once seem to me. + +This world, the eternally imperfect, an eternal contradiction’s image +and imperfect image—an intoxicating joy to its imperfect creator:—thus +did the world once seem to me. + +Thus, once on a time, did I also cast my fancy beyond man, like all +backworldsmen. Beyond man, forsooth? + +Ah, ye brethren, that God whom I created was human work and human +madness, like all the Gods! + +A man was he, and only a poor fragment of a man and ego. Out of mine own +ashes and glow it came unto me, that phantom. And verily, it came not +unto me from the beyond! + +What happened, my brethren? I surpassed myself, the suffering one; I +carried mine own ashes to the mountain; a brighter flame I contrived for +myself. And lo! Thereupon the phantom WITHDREW from me! + +To me the convalescent would it now be suffering and torment to believe +in such phantoms: suffering would it now be to me, and humiliation. Thus +speak I to backworldsmen. + +Suffering was it, and impotence—that created all backworlds; and +the short madness of happiness, which only the greatest sufferer +experienceth. + +Weariness, which seeketh to get to the ultimate with one leap, with +a death-leap; a poor ignorant weariness, unwilling even to will any +longer: that created all Gods and backworlds. + +Believe me, my brethren! It was the body which despaired of the body—it +groped with the fingers of the infatuated spirit at the ultimate walls. + +Believe me, my brethren! It was the body which despaired of the +earth—it heard the bowels of existence speaking unto it. + +And then it sought to get through the ultimate walls with its head—and +not with its head only—into “the other world.” + +But that “other world” is well concealed from man, that dehumanised, +inhuman world, which is a celestial naught; and the bowels of existence +do not speak unto man, except as man. + +Verily, it is difficult to prove all being, and hard to make it speak. +Tell me, ye brethren, is not the strangest of all things best proved? + +Yea, this ego, with its contradiction and perplexity, speaketh most +uprightly of its being—this creating, willing, evaluing ego, which is +the measure and value of things. + +And this most upright existence, the ego—it speaketh of the body, and +still implieth the body, even when it museth and raveth and fluttereth +with broken wings. + +Always more uprightly learneth it to speak, the ego; and the more it +learneth, the more doth it find titles and honours for the body and the +earth. + +A new pride taught me mine ego, and that teach I unto men: no longer +to thrust one’s head into the sand of celestial things, but to carry it +freely, a terrestrial head, which giveth meaning to the earth! + +A new will teach I unto men: to choose that path which man hath followed +blindly, and to approve of it—and no longer to slink aside from it, +like the sick and perishing! + +The sick and perishing—it was they who despised the body and the earth, +and invented the heavenly world, and the redeeming blood-drops; but even +those sweet and sad poisons they borrowed from the body and the earth! + +From their misery they sought escape, and the stars were too remote for +them. Then they sighed: “O that there were heavenly paths by which to +steal into another existence and into happiness!” Then they contrived +for themselves their by-paths and bloody draughts! + +Beyond the sphere of their body and this earth they now fancied +themselves transported, these ungrateful ones. But to what did they owe +the convulsion and rapture of their transport? To their body and this +earth. + +Gentle is Zarathustra to the sickly. Verily, he is not indignant +at their modes of consolation and ingratitude. May they become +convalescents and overcomers, and create higher bodies for themselves! + +Neither is Zarathustra indignant at a convalescent who looketh tenderly +on his delusions, and at midnight stealeth round the grave of his God; +but sickness and a sick frame remain even in his tears. + +Many sickly ones have there always been among those who muse, and +languish for God; violently they hate the discerning ones, and the +latest of virtues, which is uprightness. + +Backward they always gaze toward dark ages: then, indeed, were delusion +and faith something different. Raving of the reason was likeness to God, +and doubt was sin. + +Too well do I know those godlike ones: they insist on being believed in, +and that doubt is sin. Too well, also, do I know what they themselves +most believe in. + +Verily, not in backworlds and redeeming blood-drops: but in the body +do they also believe most; and their own body is for them the +thing-in-itself. + +But it is a sickly thing to them, and gladly would they get out of their +skin. Therefore hearken they to the preachers of death, and themselves +preach backworlds. + +Hearken rather, my brethren, to the voice of the healthy body; it is a +more upright and pure voice. + +More uprightly and purely speaketh the healthy body, perfect and +square-built; and it speaketh of the meaning of the earth.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +IV. THE DESPISERS OF THE BODY. + + +To the despisers of the body will I speak my word. I wish them neither +to learn afresh, nor teach anew, but only to bid farewell to their own +bodies,—and thus be dumb. + +“Body am I, and soul”—so saith the child. And why should one not speak +like children? + +But the awakened one, the knowing one, saith: “Body am I entirely, and +nothing more; and soul is only the name of something in the body.” + +The body is a big sagacity, a plurality with one sense, a war and a +peace, a flock and a shepherd. + +An instrument of thy body is also thy little sagacity, my brother, which +thou callest “spirit”—a little instrument and plaything of thy big +sagacity. + +“Ego,” sayest thou, and art proud of that word. But the greater +thing—in which thou art unwilling to believe—is thy body with its big +sagacity; it saith not “ego,” but doeth it. + +What the sense feeleth, what the spirit discerneth, hath never its end +in itself. But sense and spirit would fain persuade thee that they are +the end of all things: so vain are they. + +Instruments and playthings are sense and spirit: behind them there +is still the Self. The Self seeketh with the eyes of the senses, it +hearkeneth also with the ears of the spirit. + +Ever hearkeneth the Self, and seeketh; it compareth, mastereth, +conquereth, and destroyeth. It ruleth, and is also the ego’s ruler. + +Behind thy thoughts and feelings, my brother, there is a mighty lord, +an unknown sage—it is called Self; it dwelleth in thy body, it is thy +body. + +There is more sagacity in thy body than in thy best wisdom. And who then +knoweth why thy body requireth just thy best wisdom? + +Thy Self laugheth at thine ego, and its proud prancings. “What are these +prancings and flights of thought unto me?” it saith to itself. “A by-way +to my purpose. I am the leading-string of the ego, and the prompter of +its notions.” + +The Self saith unto the ego: “Feel pain!” And thereupon it suffereth, +and thinketh how it may put an end thereto—and for that very purpose it +IS MEANT to think. + +The Self saith unto the ego: “Feel pleasure!” Thereupon it rejoiceth, +and thinketh how it may ofttimes rejoice—and for that very purpose it +IS MEANT to think. + +To the despisers of the body will I speak a word. That they despise is +caused by their esteem. What is it that created esteeming and despising +and worth and will? + +The creating Self created for itself esteeming and despising, it created +for itself joy and woe. The creating body created for itself spirit, as +a hand to its will. + +Even in your folly and despising ye each serve your Self, ye despisers +of the body. I tell you, your very Self wanteth to die, and turneth away +from life. + +No longer can your Self do that which it desireth most:—create beyond +itself. That is what it desireth most; that is all its fervour. + +But it is now too late to do so:—so your Self wisheth to succumb, ye +despisers of the body. + +To succumb—so wisheth your Self; and therefore have ye become despisers +of the body. For ye can no longer create beyond yourselves. + +And therefore are ye now angry with life and with the earth. And +unconscious envy is in the sidelong look of your contempt. + +I go not your way, ye despisers of the body! Ye are no bridges for me to +the Superman!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +V. JOYS AND PASSIONS. + + +My brother, when thou hast a virtue, and it is thine own virtue, thou +hast it in common with no one. + +To be sure, thou wouldst call it by name and caress it; thou wouldst +pull its ears and amuse thyself with it. + +And lo! Then hast thou its name in common with the people, and hast +become one of the people and the herd with thy virtue! + +Better for thee to say: “Ineffable is it, and nameless, that which is +pain and sweetness to my soul, and also the hunger of my bowels.” + +Let thy virtue be too high for the familiarity of names, and if thou +must speak of it, be not ashamed to stammer about it. + +Thus speak and stammer: “That is MY good, that do I love, thus doth it +please me entirely, thus only do _I_ desire the good. + +Not as the law of a God do I desire it, not as a human law or a human +need do I desire it; it is not to be a guide-post for me to superearths +and paradises. + +An earthly virtue is it which I love: little prudence is therein, and +the least everyday wisdom. + +But that bird built its nest beside me: therefore, I love and cherish +it—now sitteth it beside me on its golden eggs.” + +Thus shouldst thou stammer, and praise thy virtue. + +Once hadst thou passions and calledst them evil. But now hast thou only +thy virtues: they grew out of thy passions. + +Thou implantedst thy highest aim into the heart of those passions: then +became they thy virtues and joys. + +And though thou wert of the race of the hot-tempered, or of the +voluptuous, or of the fanatical, or the vindictive; + +All thy passions in the end became virtues, and all thy devils angels. + +Once hadst thou wild dogs in thy cellar: but they changed at last into +birds and charming songstresses. + +Out of thy poisons brewedst thou balsam for thyself; thy cow, +affliction, milkedst thou—now drinketh thou the sweet milk of her +udder. + +And nothing evil groweth in thee any longer, unless it be the evil that +groweth out of the conflict of thy virtues. + +My brother, if thou be fortunate, then wilt thou have one virtue and no +more: thus goest thou easier over the bridge. + +Illustrious is it to have many virtues, but a hard lot; and many a one +hath gone into the wilderness and killed himself, because he was weary +of being the battle and battlefield of virtues. + +My brother, are war and battle evil? Necessary, however, is the evil; +necessary are the envy and the distrust and the back-biting among the +virtues. + +Lo! how each of thy virtues is covetous of the highest place; it wanteth +thy whole spirit to be ITS herald, it wanteth thy whole power, in wrath, +hatred, and love. + +Jealous is every virtue of the others, and a dreadful thing is jealousy. +Even virtues may succumb by jealousy. + +He whom the flame of jealousy encompasseth, turneth at last, like the +scorpion, the poisoned sting against himself. + +Ah! my brother, hast thou never seen a virtue backbite and stab itself? + +Man is something that hath to be surpassed: and therefore shalt thou +love thy virtues,—for thou wilt succumb by them.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +VI. THE PALE CRIMINAL. + + +Ye do not mean to slay, ye judges and sacrificers, until the animal hath +bowed its head? Lo! the pale criminal hath bowed his head: out of his +eye speaketh the great contempt. + +“Mine ego is something which is to be surpassed: mine ego is to me the +great contempt of man”: so speaketh it out of that eye. + +When he judged himself—that was his supreme moment; let not the exalted +one relapse again into his low estate! + +There is no salvation for him who thus suffereth from himself, unless it +be speedy death. + +Your slaying, ye judges, shall be pity, and not revenge; and in that ye +slay, see to it that ye yourselves justify life! + +It is not enough that ye should reconcile with him whom ye slay. Let +your sorrow be love to the Superman: thus will ye justify your own +survival! + +“Enemy” shall ye say but not “villain,” “invalid” shall ye say but not +“wretch,” “fool” shall ye say but not “sinner.” + +And thou, red judge, if thou would say audibly all thou hast done in +thought, then would every one cry: “Away with the nastiness and the +virulent reptile!” + +But one thing is the thought, another thing is the deed, and another +thing is the idea of the deed. The wheel of causality doth not roll +between them. + +An idea made this pale man pale. Adequate was he for his deed when he +did it, but the idea of it, he could not endure when it was done. + +Evermore did he now see himself as the doer of one deed. Madness, I call +this: the exception reversed itself to the rule in him. + +The streak of chalk bewitcheth the hen; the stroke he struck bewitched +his weak reason. Madness AFTER the deed, I call this. + +Hearken, ye judges! There is another madness besides, and it is BEFORE +the deed. Ah! ye have not gone deep enough into this soul! + +Thus speaketh the red judge: “Why did this criminal commit murder? He +meant to rob.” I tell you, however, that his soul wanted blood, not +booty: he thirsted for the happiness of the knife! + +But his weak reason understood not this madness, and it persuaded him. +“What matter about blood!” it said; “wishest thou not, at least, to make +booty thereby? Or take revenge?” + +And he hearkened unto his weak reason: like lead lay its words upon +him—thereupon he robbed when he murdered. He did not mean to be +ashamed of his madness. + +And now once more lieth the lead of his guilt upon him, and once more is +his weak reason so benumbed, so paralysed, and so dull. + +Could he only shake his head, then would his burden roll off; but who +shaketh that head? + +What is this man? A mass of diseases that reach out into the world +through the spirit; there they want to get their prey. + +What is this man? A coil of wild serpents that are seldom at peace among +themselves—so they go forth apart and seek prey in the world. + +Look at that poor body! What it suffered and craved, the poor soul +interpreted to itself—it interpreted it as murderous desire, and +eagerness for the happiness of the knife. + +Him who now turneth sick, the evil overtaketh which is now the evil: he +seeketh to cause pain with that which causeth him pain. But there have +been other ages, and another evil and good. + +Once was doubt evil, and the will to Self. Then the invalid became a +heretic or sorcerer; as heretic or sorcerer he suffered, and sought to +cause suffering. + +But this will not enter your ears; it hurteth your good people, ye tell +me. But what doth it matter to me about your good people! + +Many things in your good people cause me disgust, and verily, not their +evil. I would that they had a madness by which they succumbed, like this +pale criminal! + +Verily, I would that their madness were called truth, or fidelity, +or justice: but they have their virtue in order to live long, and in +wretched self-complacency. + +I am a railing alongside the torrent; whoever is able to grasp me may +grasp me! Your crutch, however, I am not.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +VII. READING AND WRITING. + + +Of all that is written, I love only what a person hath written with his +blood. Write with blood, and thou wilt find that blood is spirit. + +It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate the reading +idlers. + +He who knoweth the reader, doeth nothing more for the reader. Another +century of readers—and spirit itself will stink. + +Every one being allowed to learn to read, ruineth in the long run not +only writing but also thinking. + +Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becometh +populace. + +He that writeth in blood and proverbs doth not want to be read, but +learnt by heart. + +In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that +route thou must have long legs. Proverbs should be peaks, and those +spoken to should be big and tall. + +The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a +joyful wickedness: thus are things well matched. + +I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. The courage which +scareth away ghosts, createth for itself goblins—it wanteth to laugh. + +I no longer feel in common with you; the very cloud which I see +beneath me, the blackness and heaviness at which I laugh—that is your +thunder-cloud. + +Ye look aloft when ye long for exaltation; and I look downward because I +am exalted. + +Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted? + +He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays +and tragic realities. + +Courageous, unconcerned, scornful, coercive—so wisdom wisheth us; she +is a woman, and ever loveth only a warrior. + +Ye tell me, “Life is hard to bear.” But for what purpose should ye have +your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening? + +Life is hard to bear: but do not affect to be so delicate! We are all of +us fine sumpter asses and assesses. + +What have we in common with the rose-bud, which trembleth because a drop +of dew hath formed upon it? + +It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we +are wont to love. + +There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some +method in madness. + +And to me also, who appreciate life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, +and whatever is like them amongst us, seem most to enjoy happiness. + +To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit +about—that moveth Zarathustra to tears and songs. + +I should only believe in a God that would know how to dance. + +And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, +solemn: he was the spirit of gravity—through him all things fall. + +Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we slay. Come, let us slay the spirit +of gravity! + +I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; +since then I do not need pushing in order to move from a spot. + +Now am I light, now do I fly; now do I see myself under myself. Now +there danceth a God in me.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +VIII. THE TREE ON THE HILL. + + +Zarathustra’s eye had perceived that a certain youth avoided him. And as +he walked alone one evening over the hills surrounding the town called +“The Pied Cow,” behold, there found he the youth sitting leaning against +a tree, and gazing with wearied look into the valley. Zarathustra +thereupon laid hold of the tree beside which the youth sat, and spake +thus: + +“If I wished to shake this tree with my hands, I should not be able to +do so. + +But the wind, which we see not, troubleth and bendeth it as it listeth. +We are sorest bent and troubled by invisible hands.” + +Thereupon the youth arose disconcerted, and said: “I hear Zarathustra, +and just now was I thinking of him!” Zarathustra answered: + +“Why art thou frightened on that account?—But it is the same with man +as with the tree. + +The more he seeketh to rise into the height and light, the more +vigorously do his roots struggle earthward, downward, into the dark and +deep—into the evil.” + +“Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth. “How is it possible that thou +hast discovered my soul?” + +Zarathustra smiled, and said: “Many a soul one will never discover, +unless one first invent it.” + +“Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth once more. + +“Thou saidst the truth, Zarathustra. I trust myself no longer since I +sought to rise into the height, and nobody trusteth me any longer; how +doth that happen? + +I change too quickly: my to-day refuteth my yesterday. I often overleap +the steps when I clamber; for so doing, none of the steps pardons me. + +When aloft, I find myself always alone. No one speaketh unto me; the +frost of solitude maketh me tremble. What do I seek on the height? + +My contempt and my longing increase together; the higher I clamber, the +more do I despise him who clambereth. What doth he seek on the height? + +How ashamed I am of my clambering and stumbling! How I mock at my +violent panting! How I hate him who flieth! How tired I am on the +height!” + +Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside +which they stood, and spake thus: + +“This tree standeth lonely here on the hills; it hath grown up high +above man and beast. + +And if it wanted to speak, it would have none who could understand it: +so high hath it grown. + +Now it waiteth and waiteth,—for what doth it wait? It dwelleth too +close to the seat of the clouds; it waiteth perhaps for the first +lightning?” + +When Zarathustra had said this, the youth called out with violent +gestures: “Yea, Zarathustra, thou speakest the truth. My destruction +I longed for, when I desired to be on the height, and thou art the +lightning for which I waited! Lo! what have I been since thou hast +appeared amongst us? It is mine envy of thee that hath destroyed +me!”—Thus spake the youth, and wept bitterly. Zarathustra, however, put +his arm about him, and led the youth away with him. + +And when they had walked a while together, Zarathustra began to speak +thus: + +It rendeth my heart. Better than thy words express it, thine eyes tell +me all thy danger. + +As yet thou art not free; thou still SEEKEST freedom. Too unslept hath +thy seeking made thee, and too wakeful. + +On the open height wouldst thou be; for the stars thirsteth thy soul. +But thy bad impulses also thirst for freedom. + +Thy wild dogs want liberty; they bark for joy in their cellar when thy +spirit endeavoureth to open all prison doors. + +Still art thou a prisoner—it seemeth to me—who deviseth liberty +for himself: ah! sharp becometh the soul of such prisoners, but also +deceitful and wicked. + +To purify himself, is still necessary for the freedman of the spirit. +Much of the prison and the mould still remaineth in him: pure hath his +eye still to become. + +Yea, I know thy danger. But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not +thy love and hope away! + +Noble thou feelest thyself still, and noble others also feel thee still, +though they bear thee a grudge and cast evil looks. Know this, that to +everybody a noble one standeth in the way. + +Also to the good, a noble one standeth in the way: and even when they +call him a good man, they want thereby to put him aside. + +The new, would the noble man create, and a new virtue. The old, wanteth +the good man, and that the old should be conserved. + +But it is not the danger of the noble man to turn a good man, but lest +he should become a blusterer, a scoffer, or a destroyer. + +Ah! I have known noble ones who lost their highest hope. And then they +disparaged all high hopes. + +Then lived they shamelessly in temporary pleasures, and beyond the day +had hardly an aim. + +“Spirit is also voluptuousness,”—said they. Then broke the wings of +their spirit; and now it creepeth about, and defileth where it gnaweth. + +Once they thought of becoming heroes; but sensualists are they now. A +trouble and a terror is the hero to them. + +But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not away the hero in thy +soul! Maintain holy thy highest hope!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +IX. THE PREACHERS OF DEATH. + + +There are preachers of death: and the earth is full of those to whom +desistance from life must be preached. + +Full is the earth of the superfluous; marred is life by the +many-too-many. May they be decoyed out of this life by the “life +eternal”! + +“The yellow ones”: so are called the preachers of death, or “the black +ones.” But I will show them unto you in other colours besides. + +There are the terrible ones who carry about in themselves the beast of +prey, and have no choice except lusts or self-laceration. And even their +lusts are self-laceration. + +They have not yet become men, those terrible ones: may they preach +desistance from life, and pass away themselves! + +There are the spiritually consumptive ones: hardly are they born when +they begin to die, and long for doctrines of lassitude and renunciation. + +They would fain be dead, and we should approve of their wish! Let +us beware of awakening those dead ones, and of damaging those living +coffins! + +They meet an invalid, or an old man, or a corpse—and immediately they +say: “Life is refuted!” + +But they only are refuted, and their eye, which seeth only one aspect of +existence. + +Shrouded in thick melancholy, and eager for the little casualties that +bring death: thus do they wait, and clench their teeth. + +Or else, they grasp at sweetmeats, and mock at their childishness +thereby: they cling to their straw of life, and mock at their still +clinging to it. + +Their wisdom speaketh thus: “A fool, he who remaineth alive; but so far +are we fools! And that is the foolishest thing in life!” + +“Life is only suffering”: so say others, and lie not. Then see to it +that YE cease! See to it that the life ceaseth which is only suffering! + +And let this be the teaching of your virtue: “Thou shalt slay thyself! +Thou shalt steal away from thyself!”— + +“Lust is sin,”—so say some who preach death—“let us go apart and beget +no children!” + +“Giving birth is troublesome,”—say others—“why still give birth? One +beareth only the unfortunate!” And they also are preachers of death. + +“Pity is necessary,”—so saith a third party. “Take what I have! Take +what I am! So much less doth life bind me!” + +Were they consistently pitiful, then would they make their neighbours +sick of life. To be wicked—that would be their true goodness. + +But they want to be rid of life; what care they if they bind others +still faster with their chains and gifts!— + +And ye also, to whom life is rough labour and disquiet, are ye not very +tired of life? Are ye not very ripe for the sermon of death? + +All ye to whom rough labour is dear, and the rapid, new, and strange—ye +put up with yourselves badly; your diligence is flight, and the will to +self-forgetfulness. + +If ye believed more in life, then would ye devote yourselves less to the +momentary. But for waiting, ye have not enough of capacity in you—nor +even for idling! + +Everywhere resoundeth the voices of those who preach death; and the +earth is full of those to whom death hath to be preached. + +Or “life eternal”; it is all the same to me—if only they pass away +quickly!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +X. WAR AND WARRIORS. + + +By our best enemies we do not want to be spared, nor by those either +whom we love from the very heart. So let me tell you the truth! + +My brethren in war! I love you from the very heart. I am, and was ever, +your counterpart. And I am also your best enemy. So let me tell you the +truth! + +I know the hatred and envy of your hearts. Ye are not great enough not +to know of hatred and envy. Then be great enough not to be ashamed of +them! + +And if ye cannot be saints of knowledge, then, I pray you, be at least +its warriors. They are the companions and forerunners of such saintship. + +I see many soldiers; could I but see many warriors! “Uniform” one +calleth what they wear; may it not be uniform what they therewith hide! + +Ye shall be those whose eyes ever seek for an enemy—for YOUR enemy. And +with some of you there is hatred at first sight. + +Your enemy shall ye seek; your war shall ye wage, and for the sake of +your thoughts! And if your thoughts succumb, your uprightness shall +still shout triumph thereby! + +Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars—and the short peace more +than the long. + +You I advise not to work, but to fight. You I advise not to peace, but +to victory. Let your work be a fight, let your peace be a victory! + +One can only be silent and sit peacefully when one hath arrow and bow; +otherwise one prateth and quarrelleth. Let your peace be a victory! + +Ye say it is the good cause which halloweth even war? I say unto you: it +is the good war which halloweth every cause. + +War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your +sympathy, but your bravery hath hitherto saved the victims. + +“What is good?” ye ask. To be brave is good. Let the little girls say: +“To be good is what is pretty, and at the same time touching.” + +They call you heartless: but your heart is true, and I love the +bashfulness of your good-will. Ye are ashamed of your flow, and others +are ashamed of their ebb. + +Ye are ugly? Well then, my brethren, take the sublime about you, the +mantle of the ugly! + +And when your soul becometh great, then doth it become haughty, and in +your sublimity there is wickedness. I know you. + +In wickedness the haughty man and the weakling meet. But they +misunderstand one another. I know you. + +Ye shall only have enemies to be hated, but not enemies to be despised. +Ye must be proud of your enemies; then, the successes of your enemies +are also your successes. + +Resistance—that is the distinction of the slave. Let your distinction +be obedience. Let your commanding itself be obeying! + +To the good warrior soundeth “thou shalt” pleasanter than “I will.” And +all that is dear unto you, ye shall first have it commanded unto you. + +Let your love to life be love to your highest hope; and let your highest +hope be the highest thought of life! + +Your highest thought, however, ye shall have it commanded unto you by +me—and it is this: man is something that is to be surpassed. + +So live your life of obedience and of war! What matter about long life! +What warrior wisheth to be spared! + +I spare you not, I love you from my very heart, my brethren in war!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XI. THE NEW IDOL. + + +Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but not with us, my +brethren: here there are states. + +A state? What is that? Well! open now your ears unto me, for now will I +say unto you my word concerning the death of peoples. + +A state, is called the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly lieth +it also; and this lie creepeth from its mouth: “I, the state, am the +people.” + +It is a lie! Creators were they who created peoples, and hung a faith +and a love over them: thus they served life. + +Destroyers, are they who lay snares for many, and call it the state: +they hang a sword and a hundred cravings over them. + +Where there is still a people, there the state is not understood, but +hated as the evil eye, and as sin against laws and customs. + +This sign I give unto you: every people speaketh its language of good +and evil: this its neighbour understandeth not. Its language hath it +devised for itself in laws and customs. + +But the state lieth in all languages of good and evil; and whatever it +saith it lieth; and whatever it hath it hath stolen. + +False is everything in it; with stolen teeth it biteth, the biting one. +False are even its bowels. + +Confusion of language of good and evil; this sign I give unto you as +the sign of the state. Verily, the will to death, indicateth this sign! +Verily, it beckoneth unto the preachers of death! + +Many too many are born: for the superfluous ones was the state devised! + +See just how it enticeth them to it, the many-too-many! How it +swalloweth and cheweth and recheweth them! + +“On earth there is nothing greater than I: it is I who am the regulating +finger of God”—thus roareth the monster. And not only the long-eared +and short-sighted fall upon their knees! + +Ah! even in your ears, ye great souls, it whispereth its gloomy lies! +Ah! it findeth out the rich hearts which willingly lavish themselves! + +Yea, it findeth you out too, ye conquerors of the old God! Weary ye +became of the conflict, and now your weariness serveth the new idol! + +Heroes and honourable ones, it would fain set up around it, the new +idol! Gladly it basketh in the sunshine of good consciences,—the cold +monster! + +Everything will it give YOU, if YE worship it, the new idol: thus it +purchaseth the lustre of your virtue, and the glance of your proud eyes. + +It seeketh to allure by means of you, the many-too-many! Yea, a hellish +artifice hath here been devised, a death-horse jingling with the +trappings of divine honours! + +Yea, a dying for many hath here been devised, which glorifieth itself as +life: verily, a hearty service unto all preachers of death! + +The state, I call it, where all are poison-drinkers, the good and the +bad: the state, where all lose themselves, the good and the bad: the +state, where the slow suicide of all—is called “life.” + +Just see these superfluous ones! They steal the works of the inventors +and the treasures of the wise. Culture, they call their theft—and +everything becometh sickness and trouble unto them! + +Just see these superfluous ones! Sick are they always; they vomit their +bile and call it a newspaper. They devour one another, and cannot even +digest themselves. + +Just see these superfluous ones! Wealth they acquire and become poorer +thereby. Power they seek for, and above all, the lever of power, much +money—these impotent ones! + +See them clamber, these nimble apes! They clamber over one another, and +thus scuffle into the mud and the abyss. + +Towards the throne they all strive: it is their madness—as if happiness +sat on the throne! Ofttimes sitteth filth on the throne.—and ofttimes +also the throne on filth. + +Madmen they all seem to me, and clambering apes, and too eager. Badly +smelleth their idol to me, the cold monster: badly they all smell to me, +these idolaters. + +My brethren, will ye suffocate in the fumes of their maws and appetites! +Better break the windows and jump into the open air! + +Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the idolatry of the +superfluous! + +Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the steam of these +human sacrifices! + +Open still remaineth the earth for great souls. Empty are still many +sites for lone ones and twain ones, around which floateth the odour of +tranquil seas. + +Open still remaineth a free life for great souls. Verily, he who +possesseth little is so much the less possessed: blessed be moderate +poverty! + +There, where the state ceaseth—there only commenceth the man who is not +superfluous: there commenceth the song of the necessary ones, the single +and irreplaceable melody. + +There, where the state CEASETH—pray look thither, my brethren! Do ye +not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the Superman?— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XII. THE FLIES IN THE MARKET-PLACE. + + +Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I see thee deafened with the noise +of the great men, and stung all over with the stings of the little ones. + +Admirably do forest and rock know how to be silent with thee. Resemble +again the tree which thou lovest, the broad-branched one—silently and +attentively it o’erhangeth the sea. + +Where solitude endeth, there beginneth the market-place; and where the +market-place beginneth, there beginneth also the noise of the great +actors, and the buzzing of the poison-flies. + +In the world even the best things are worthless without those who +represent them: those representers, the people call great men. + +Little do the people understand what is great—that is to say, the +creating agency. But they have a taste for all representers and actors +of great things. + +Around the devisers of new values revolveth the world:—invisibly it +revolveth. But around the actors revolve the people and the glory: such +is the course of things. + +Spirit, hath the actor, but little conscience of the spirit. He +believeth always in that wherewith he maketh believe most strongly—in +HIMSELF! + +To-morrow he hath a new belief, and the day after, one still newer. Sharp +perceptions hath he, like the people, and changeable humours. + +To upset—that meaneth with him to prove. To drive mad—that meaneth +with him to convince. And blood is counted by him as the best of all +arguments. + +A truth which only glideth into fine ears, he calleth falsehood and +trumpery. Verily, he believeth only in Gods that make a great noise in +the world! + +Full of clattering buffoons is the market-place,—and the people glory +in their great men! These are for them the masters of the hour. + +But the hour presseth them; so they press thee. And also from thee +they want Yea or Nay. Alas! thou wouldst set thy chair betwixt For and +Against? + +On account of those absolute and impatient ones, be not jealous, thou +lover of truth! Never yet did truth cling to the arm of an absolute one. + +On account of those abrupt ones, return into thy security: only in the +market-place is one assailed by Yea? or Nay? + +Slow is the experience of all deep fountains: long have they to wait +until they know WHAT hath fallen into their depths. + +Away from the market-place and from fame taketh place all that is great: +away from the market-place and from fame have ever dwelt the devisers of +new values. + +Flee, my friend, into thy solitude: I see thee stung all over by the +poisonous flies. Flee thither, where a rough, strong breeze bloweth! + +Flee into thy solitude! Thou hast lived too closely to the small and the +pitiable. Flee from their invisible vengeance! Towards thee they have +nothing but vengeance. + +Raise no longer an arm against them! Innumerable are they, and it is not +thy lot to be a fly-flap. + +Innumerable are the small and pitiable ones; and of many a proud +structure, rain-drops and weeds have been the ruin. + +Thou art not stone; but already hast thou become hollow by the numerous +drops. Thou wilt yet break and burst by the numerous drops. + +Exhausted I see thee, by poisonous flies; bleeding I see thee, and torn +at a hundred spots; and thy pride will not even upbraid. + +Blood they would have from thee in all innocence; blood their bloodless +souls crave for—and they sting, therefore, in all innocence. + +But thou, profound one, thou sufferest too profoundly even from small +wounds; and ere thou hadst recovered, the same poison-worm crawled over +thy hand. + +Too proud art thou to kill these sweet-tooths. But take care lest it be +thy fate to suffer all their poisonous injustice! + +They buzz around thee also with their praise: obtrusiveness, is their +praise. They want to be close to thy skin and thy blood. + +They flatter thee, as one flattereth a God or devil; they whimper before +thee, as before a God or devil. What doth it come to! Flatterers are +they, and whimperers, and nothing more. + +Often, also, do they show themselves to thee as amiable ones. But that +hath ever been the prudence of the cowardly. Yea! the cowardly are wise! + +They think much about thee with their circumscribed souls—thou art +always suspected by them! Whatever is much thought about is at last +thought suspicious. + +They punish thee for all thy virtues. They pardon thee in their inmost +hearts only—for thine errors. + +Because thou art gentle and of upright character, thou sayest: +“Blameless are they for their small existence.” But their circumscribed +souls think: “Blamable is all great existence.” + +Even when thou art gentle towards them, they still feel themselves +despised by thee; and they repay thy beneficence with secret +maleficence. + +Thy silent pride is always counter to their taste; they rejoice if once +thou be humble enough to be frivolous. + +What we recognise in a man, we also irritate in him. Therefore be on +your guard against the small ones! + +In thy presence they feel themselves small, and their baseness gleameth +and gloweth against thee in invisible vengeance. + +Sawest thou not how often they became dumb when thou approachedst them, +and how their energy left them like the smoke of an extinguishing fire? + +Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art thou of thy neighbours; for they +are unworthy of thee. Therefore they hate thee, and would fain suck thy +blood. + +Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies; what is great in +thee—that itself must make them more poisonous, and always more +fly-like. + +Flee, my friend, into thy solitude—and thither, where a rough strong +breeze bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XIII. CHASTITY. + + +I love the forest. It is bad to live in cities: there, there are too +many of the lustful. + +Is it not better to fall into the hands of a murderer, than into the +dreams of a lustful woman? + +And just look at these men: their eye saith it—they know nothing better +on earth than to lie with a woman. + +Filth is at the bottom of their souls; and alas! if their filth hath +still spirit in it! + +Would that ye were perfect—at least as animals! But to animals +belongeth innocence. + +Do I counsel you to slay your instincts? I counsel you to innocence in +your instincts. + +Do I counsel you to chastity? Chastity is a virtue with some, but with +many almost a vice. + +These are continent, to be sure: but doggish lust looketh enviously out +of all that they do. + +Even into the heights of their virtue and into their cold spirit doth +this creature follow them, with its discord. + +And how nicely can doggish lust beg for a piece of spirit, when a piece +of flesh is denied it! + +Ye love tragedies and all that breaketh the heart? But I am distrustful +of your doggish lust. + +Ye have too cruel eyes, and ye look wantonly towards the sufferers. +Hath not your lust just disguised itself and taken the name of +fellow-suffering? + +And also this parable give I unto you: Not a few who meant to cast out +their devil, went thereby into the swine themselves. + +To whom chastity is difficult, it is to be dissuaded: lest it become the +road to hell—to filth and lust of soul. + +Do I speak of filthy things? That is not the worst thing for me to do. + +Not when the truth is filthy, but when it is shallow, doth the +discerning one go unwillingly into its waters. + +Verily, there are chaste ones from their very nature; they are gentler +of heart, and laugh better and oftener than you. + +They laugh also at chastity, and ask: “What is chastity? + +Is chastity not folly? But the folly came unto us, and not we unto it. + +We offered that guest harbour and heart: now it dwelleth with us—let it +stay as long as it will!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XIV. THE FRIEND. + + +“One, is always too many about me”—thinketh the anchorite. “Always once +one—that maketh two in the long run!” + +I and me are always too earnestly in conversation: how could it be +endured, if there were not a friend? + +The friend of the anchorite is always the third one: the third one is +the cork which preventeth the conversation of the two sinking into the +depth. + +Ah! there are too many depths for all anchorites. Therefore, do they +long so much for a friend, and for his elevation. + +Our faith in others betrayeth wherein we would fain have faith in +ourselves. Our longing for a friend is our betrayer. + +And often with our love we want merely to overleap envy. And often we +attack and make ourselves enemies, to conceal that we are vulnerable. + +“Be at least mine enemy!”—thus speaketh the true reverence, which doth +not venture to solicit friendship. + +If one would have a friend, then must one also be willing to wage war +for him: and in order to wage war, one must be CAPABLE of being an +enemy. + +One ought still to honour the enemy in one’s friend. Canst thou go nigh +unto thy friend, and not go over to him? + +In one’s friend one shall have one’s best enemy. Thou shalt be closest +unto him with thy heart when thou withstandest him. + +Thou wouldst wear no raiment before thy friend? It is in honour of thy +friend that thou showest thyself to him as thou art? But he wisheth thee +to the devil on that account! + +He who maketh no secret of himself shocketh: so much reason have ye +to fear nakedness! Aye, if ye were Gods, ye could then be ashamed of +clothing! + +Thou canst not adorn thyself fine enough for thy friend; for thou shalt +be unto him an arrow and a longing for the Superman. + +Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep—to know how he looketh? What is +usually the countenance of thy friend? It is thine own countenance, in a +coarse and imperfect mirror. + +Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep? Wert thou not dismayed at thy friend +looking so? O my friend, man is something that hath to be surpassed. + +In divining and keeping silence shall the friend be a master: not +everything must thou wish to see. Thy dream shall disclose unto thee +what thy friend doeth when awake. + +Let thy pity be a divining: to know first if thy friend wanteth pity. +Perhaps he loveth in thee the unmoved eye, and the look of eternity. + +Let thy pity for thy friend be hid under a hard shell; thou shalt bite +out a tooth upon it. Thus will it have delicacy and sweetness. + +Art thou pure air and solitude and bread and medicine to thy friend? +Many a one cannot loosen his own fetters, but is nevertheless his +friend’s emancipator. + +Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be a friend. Art thou a tyrant? +Then thou canst not have friends. + +Far too long hath there been a slave and a tyrant concealed in woman. +On that account woman is not yet capable of friendship: she knoweth only +love. + +In woman’s love there is injustice and blindness to all she doth not +love. And even in woman’s conscious love, there is still always surprise +and lightning and night, along with the light. + +As yet woman is not capable of friendship: women are still cats, and +birds. Or at the best, cows. + +As yet woman is not capable of friendship. But tell me, ye men, who of +you are capable of friendship? + +Oh! your poverty, ye men, and your sordidness of soul! As much as ye +give to your friend, will I give even to my foe, and will not have +become poorer thereby. + +There is comradeship: may there be friendship! + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XV. THE THOUSAND AND ONE GOALS. + + +Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples: thus he discovered the +good and bad of many peoples. No greater power did Zarathustra find on +earth than good and bad. + +No people could live without first valuing; if a people will maintain +itself, however, it must not value as its neighbour valueth. + +Much that passed for good with one people was regarded with scorn and +contempt by another: thus I found it. Much found I here called bad, +which was there decked with purple honours. + +Never did the one neighbour understand the other: ever did his soul +marvel at his neighbour’s delusion and wickedness. + +A table of excellencies hangeth over every people. Lo! it is the table +of their triumphs; lo! it is the voice of their Will to Power. + +It is laudable, what they think hard; what is indispensable and hard +they call good; and what relieveth in the direst distress, the unique +and hardest of all,—they extol as holy. + +Whatever maketh them rule and conquer and shine, to the dismay and envy +of their neighbours, they regard as the high and foremost thing, the +test and the meaning of all else. + +Verily, my brother, if thou knewest but a people’s need, its land, +its sky, and its neighbour, then wouldst thou divine the law of its +surmountings, and why it climbeth up that ladder to its hope. + +“Always shalt thou be the foremost and prominent above others: no one +shall thy jealous soul love, except a friend”—that made the soul of a +Greek thrill: thereby went he his way to greatness. + +“To speak truth, and be skilful with bow and arrow”—so seemed it alike +pleasing and hard to the people from whom cometh my name—the name which +is alike pleasing and hard to me. + +“To honour father and mother, and from the root of the soul to do their +will”—this table of surmounting hung another people over them, and +became powerful and permanent thereby. + +“To have fidelity, and for the sake of fidelity to risk honour and +blood, even in evil and dangerous courses”—teaching itself so, another +people mastered itself, and thus mastering itself, became pregnant and +heavy with great hopes. + +Verily, men have given unto themselves all their good and bad. Verily, +they took it not, they found it not, it came not unto them as a voice +from heaven. + +Values did man only assign to things in order to maintain himself—he +created only the significance of things, a human significance! +Therefore, calleth he himself “man,” that is, the valuator. + +Valuing is creating: hear it, ye creating ones! Valuation itself is the +treasure and jewel of the valued things. + +Through valuation only is there value; and without valuation the nut of +existence would be hollow. Hear it, ye creating ones! + +Change of values—that is, change of the creating ones. Always doth he +destroy who hath to be a creator. + +Creating ones were first of all peoples, and only in late times +individuals; verily, the individual himself is still the latest +creation. + +Peoples once hung over them tables of the good. Love which would rule +and love which would obey, created for themselves such tables. + +Older is the pleasure in the herd than the pleasure in the ego: and as +long as the good conscience is for the herd, the bad conscience only +saith: ego. + +Verily, the crafty ego, the loveless one, that seeketh its advantage in +the advantage of many—it is not the origin of the herd, but its ruin. + +Loving ones, was it always, and creating ones, that created good and +bad. Fire of love gloweth in the names of all the virtues, and fire of +wrath. + +Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples: no greater power did +Zarathustra find on earth than the creations of the loving ones—“good” + and “bad” are they called. + +Verily, a prodigy is this power of praising and blaming. Tell me, ye +brethren, who will master it for me? Who will put a fetter upon the +thousand necks of this animal? + +A thousand goals have there been hitherto, for a thousand peoples have +there been. Only the fetter for the thousand necks is still lacking; +there is lacking the one goal. As yet humanity hath not a goal. + +But pray tell me, my brethren, if the goal of humanity be still lacking, +is there not also still lacking—humanity itself?— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XVI. NEIGHBOUR-LOVE. + + +Ye crowd around your neighbour, and have fine words for it. But I say +unto you: your neighbour-love is your bad love of yourselves. + +Ye flee unto your neighbour from yourselves, and would fain make a +virtue thereof: but I fathom your “unselfishness.” + +The THOU is older than the _I_; the THOU hath been consecrated, but not +yet the _I_: so man presseth nigh unto his neighbour. + +Do I advise you to neighbour-love? Rather do I advise you to +neighbour-flight and to furthest love! + +Higher than love to your neighbour is love to the furthest and future +ones; higher still than love to men, is love to things and phantoms. + +The phantom that runneth on before thee, my brother, is fairer than +thou; why dost thou not give unto it thy flesh and thy bones? But thou +fearest, and runnest unto thy neighbour. + +Ye cannot endure it with yourselves, and do not love yourselves +sufficiently: so ye seek to mislead your neighbour into love, and would +fain gild yourselves with his error. + +Would that ye could not endure it with any kind of near ones, or their +neighbours; then would ye have to create your friend and his overflowing +heart out of yourselves. + +Ye call in a witness when ye want to speak well of yourselves; and +when ye have misled him to think well of you, ye also think well of +yourselves. + +Not only doth he lie, who speaketh contrary to his knowledge, but more +so, he who speaketh contrary to his ignorance. And thus speak ye +of yourselves in your intercourse, and belie your neighbour with +yourselves. + +Thus saith the fool: “Association with men spoileth the character, +especially when one hath none.” + +The one goeth to his neighbour because he seeketh himself, and the other +because he would fain lose himself. Your bad love to yourselves maketh +solitude a prison to you. + +The furthest ones are they who pay for your love to the near ones; and +when there are but five of you together, a sixth must always die. + +I love not your festivals either: too many actors found I there, and +even the spectators often behaved like actors. + +Not the neighbour do I teach you, but the friend. Let the friend be the +festival of the earth to you, and a foretaste of the Superman. + +I teach you the friend and his overflowing heart. But one must know how +to be a sponge, if one would be loved by overflowing hearts. + +I teach you the friend in whom the world standeth complete, a capsule +of the good,—the creating friend, who hath always a complete world to +bestow. + +And as the world unrolled itself for him, so rolleth it together again +for him in rings, as the growth of good through evil, as the growth of +purpose out of chance. + +Let the future and the furthest be the motive of thy to-day; in thy +friend shalt thou love the Superman as thy motive. + +My brethren, I advise you not to neighbour-love—I advise you to +furthest love!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XVII. THE WAY OF THE CREATING ONE. + + +Wouldst thou go into isolation, my brother? Wouldst thou seek the way +unto thyself? Tarry yet a little and hearken unto me. + +“He who seeketh may easily get lost himself. All isolation is wrong”: so +say the herd. And long didst thou belong to the herd. + +The voice of the herd will still echo in thee. And when thou sayest, +“I have no longer a conscience in common with you,” then will it be a +plaint and a pain. + +Lo, that pain itself did the same conscience produce; and the last gleam +of that conscience still gloweth on thine affliction. + +But thou wouldst go the way of thine affliction, which is the way unto +thyself? Then show me thine authority and thy strength to do so! + +Art thou a new strength and a new authority? A first motion? A +self-rolling wheel? Canst thou also compel stars to revolve around thee? + +Alas! there is so much lusting for loftiness! There are so many +convulsions of the ambitions! Show me that thou art not a lusting and +ambitious one! + +Alas! there are so many great thoughts that do nothing more than the +bellows: they inflate, and make emptier than ever. + +Free, dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling thought would I hear of, and +not that thou hast escaped from a yoke. + +Art thou one ENTITLED to escape from a yoke? Many a one hath cast away +his final worth when he hath cast away his servitude. + +Free from what? What doth that matter to Zarathustra! Clearly, however, +shall thine eye show unto me: free FOR WHAT? + +Canst thou give unto thyself thy bad and thy good, and set up thy will +as a law over thee? Canst thou be judge for thyself, and avenger of thy +law? + +Terrible is aloneness with the judge and avenger of one’s own law. +Thus is a star projected into desert space, and into the icy breath of +aloneness. + +To-day sufferest thou still from the multitude, thou individual; to-day +hast thou still thy courage unabated, and thy hopes. + +But one day will the solitude weary thee; one day will thy pride yield, +and thy courage quail. Thou wilt one day cry: “I am alone!” + +One day wilt thou see no longer thy loftiness, and see too closely thy +lowliness; thy sublimity itself will frighten thee as a phantom. Thou +wilt one day cry: “All is false!” + +There are feelings which seek to slay the lonesome one; if they do not +succeed, then must they themselves die! But art thou capable of it—to +be a murderer? + +Hast thou ever known, my brother, the word “disdain”? And the anguish of +thy justice in being just to those that disdain thee? + +Thou forcest many to think differently about thee; that, charge they +heavily to thine account. Thou camest nigh unto them, and yet wentest +past: for that they never forgive thee. + +Thou goest beyond them: but the higher thou risest, the smaller doth the +eye of envy see thee. Most of all, however, is the flying one hated. + +“How could ye be just unto me!”—must thou say—“I choose your injustice +as my allotted portion.” + +Injustice and filth cast they at the lonesome one: but, my brother, if +thou wouldst be a star, thou must shine for them none the less on that +account! + +And be on thy guard against the good and just! They would fain crucify +those who devise their own virtue—they hate the lonesome ones. + +Be on thy guard, also, against holy simplicity! All is unholy to it that +is not simple; fain, likewise, would it play with the fire—of the fagot +and stake. + +And be on thy guard, also, against the assaults of thy love! Too readily +doth the recluse reach his hand to any one who meeteth him. + +To many a one mayest thou not give thy hand, but only thy paw; and I +wish thy paw also to have claws. + +But the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou thyself always be; thou +waylayest thyself in caverns and forests. + +Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to thyself! And past thyself and +thy seven devils leadeth thy way! + +A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard and a soothsayer, and a +fool, and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain. + +Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own flame; how couldst thou +become new if thou have not first become ashes! + +Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the creating one: a God wilt +thou create for thyself out of thy seven devils! + +Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the loving one: thou lovest +thyself, and on that account despisest thou thyself, as only the loving +ones despise. + +To create, desireth the loving one, because he despiseth! What knoweth +he of love who hath not been obliged to despise just what he loved! + +With thy love, go into thine isolation, my brother, and with thy +creating; and late only will justice limp after thee. + +With my tears, go into thine isolation, my brother. I love him who +seeketh to create beyond himself, and thus succumbeth.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XVIII. OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN. + + +“Why stealest thou along so furtively in the twilight, Zarathustra? And +what hidest thou so carefully under thy mantle? + +Is it a treasure that hath been given thee? Or a child that hath been +born thee? Or goest thou thyself on a thief’s errand, thou friend of the +evil?”— + +Verily, my brother, said Zarathustra, it is a treasure that hath been +given me: it is a little truth which I carry. + +But it is naughty, like a young child; and if I hold not its mouth, it +screameth too loudly. + +As I went on my way alone to-day, at the hour when the sun declineth, +there met me an old woman, and she spake thus unto my soul: + +“Much hath Zarathustra spoken also to us women, but never spake he unto +us concerning woman.” + +And I answered her: “Concerning woman, one should only talk unto men.” + +“Talk also unto me of woman,” said she; “I am old enough to forget it +presently.” + +And I obliged the old woman and spake thus unto her: + +Everything in woman is a riddle, and everything in woman hath one +solution—it is called pregnancy. + +Man is for woman a means: the purpose is always the child. But what is +woman for man? + +Two different things wanteth the true man: danger and diversion. +Therefore wanteth he woman, as the most dangerous plaything. + +Man shall be trained for war, and woman for the recreation of the +warrior: all else is folly. + +Too sweet fruits—these the warrior liketh not. Therefore liketh he +woman;—bitter is even the sweetest woman. + +Better than man doth woman understand children, but man is more childish +than woman. + +In the true man there is a child hidden: it wanteth to play. Up then, ye +women, and discover the child in man! + +A plaything let woman be, pure and fine like the precious stone, +illumined with the virtues of a world not yet come. + +Let the beam of a star shine in your love! Let your hope say: “May I +bear the Superman!” + +In your love let there be valour! With your love shall ye assail him who +inspireth you with fear! + +In your love be your honour! Little doth woman understand otherwise +about honour. But let this be your honour: always to love more than ye +are loved, and never be the second. + +Let man fear woman when she loveth: then maketh she every sacrifice, and +everything else she regardeth as worthless. + +Let man fear woman when she hateth: for man in his innermost soul is +merely evil; woman, however, is mean. + +Whom hateth woman most?—Thus spake the iron to the loadstone: “I hate +thee most, because thou attractest, but art too weak to draw unto thee.” + +The happiness of man is, “I will.” The happiness of woman is, “He will.” + +“Lo! now hath the world become perfect!”—thus thinketh every woman when +she obeyeth with all her love. + +Obey, must the woman, and find a depth for her surface. Surface, is +woman’s soul, a mobile, stormy film on shallow water. + +Man’s soul, however, is deep, its current gusheth in subterranean +caverns: woman surmiseth its force, but comprehendeth it not.— + +Then answered me the old woman: “Many fine things hath Zarathustra said, +especially for those who are young enough for them. + +Strange! Zarathustra knoweth little about woman, and yet he is right +about them! Doth this happen, because with women nothing is impossible? + +And now accept a little truth by way of thanks! I am old enough for it! + +Swaddle it up and hold its mouth: otherwise it will scream too loudly, +the little truth.” + +“Give me, woman, thy little truth!” said I. And thus spake the old +woman: + +“Thou goest to women? Do not forget thy whip!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XIX. THE BITE OF THE ADDER. + + +One day had Zarathustra fallen asleep under a fig-tree, owing to the +heat, with his arms over his face. And there came an adder and bit him +in the neck, so that Zarathustra screamed with pain. When he had +taken his arm from his face he looked at the serpent; and then did it +recognise the eyes of Zarathustra, wriggled awkwardly, and tried to get +away. “Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “as yet hast thou not received +my thanks! Thou hast awakened me in time; my journey is yet long.” + “Thy journey is short,” said the adder sadly; “my poison is fatal.” + Zarathustra smiled. “When did ever a dragon die of a serpent’s +poison?”—said he. “But take thy poison back! Thou art not rich enough +to present it to me.” Then fell the adder again on his neck, and licked +his wound. + +When Zarathustra once told this to his disciples they asked him: +“And what, O Zarathustra, is the moral of thy story?” And Zarathustra +answered them thus: + +The destroyer of morality, the good and just call me: my story is +immoral. + +When, however, ye have an enemy, then return him not good for evil: for +that would abash him. But prove that he hath done something good to you. + +And rather be angry than abash any one! And when ye are cursed, it +pleaseth me not that ye should then desire to bless. Rather curse a +little also! + +And should a great injustice befall you, then do quickly five small ones +besides. Hideous to behold is he on whom injustice presseth alone. + +Did ye ever know this? Shared injustice is half justice. And he who can +bear it, shall take the injustice upon himself! + +A small revenge is humaner than no revenge at all. And if the punishment +be not also a right and an honour to the transgressor, I do not like +your punishing. + +Nobler is it to own oneself in the wrong than to establish one’s right, +especially if one be in the right. Only, one must be rich enough to do +so. + +I do not like your cold justice; out of the eye of your judges there +always glanceth the executioner and his cold steel. + +Tell me: where find we justice, which is love with seeing eyes? + +Devise me, then, the love which not only beareth all punishment, but +also all guilt! + +Devise me, then, the justice which acquitteth every one except the +judge! + +And would ye hear this likewise? To him who seeketh to be just from the +heart, even the lie becometh philanthropy. + +But how could I be just from the heart! How can I give every one his +own! Let this be enough for me: I give unto every one mine own. + +Finally, my brethren, guard against doing wrong to any anchorite. How +could an anchorite forget! How could he requite! + +Like a deep well is an anchorite. Easy is it to throw in a stone: if +it should sink to the bottom, however, tell me, who will bring it out +again? + +Guard against injuring the anchorite! If ye have done so, however, well +then, kill him also!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XX. CHILD AND MARRIAGE. + + +I have a question for thee alone, my brother: like a sounding-lead, cast +I this question into thy soul, that I may know its depth. + +Thou art young, and desirest child and marriage. But I ask thee: Art +thou a man ENTITLED to desire a child? + +Art thou the victorious one, the self-conqueror, the ruler of thy +passions, the master of thy virtues? Thus do I ask thee. + +Or doth the animal speak in thy wish, and necessity? Or isolation? Or +discord in thee? + +I would have thy victory and freedom long for a child. Living monuments +shalt thou build to thy victory and emancipation. + +Beyond thyself shalt thou build. But first of all must thou be built +thyself, rectangular in body and soul. + +Not only onward shalt thou propagate thyself, but upward! For that +purpose may the garden of marriage help thee! + +A higher body shalt thou create, a first movement, a spontaneously +rolling wheel—a creating one shalt thou create. + +Marriage: so call I the will of the twain to create the one that is +more than those who created it. The reverence for one another, as those +exercising such a will, call I marriage. + +Let this be the significance and the truth of thy marriage. But that +which the many-too-many call marriage, those superfluous ones—ah, what +shall I call it? + +Ah, the poverty of soul in the twain! Ah, the filth of soul in the +twain! Ah, the pitiable self-complacency in the twain! + +Marriage they call it all; and they say their marriages are made in +heaven. + +Well, I do not like it, that heaven of the superfluous! No, I do not +like them, those animals tangled in the heavenly toils! + +Far from me also be the God who limpeth thither to bless what he hath +not matched! + +Laugh not at such marriages! What child hath not had reason to weep over +its parents? + +Worthy did this man seem, and ripe for the meaning of the earth: but +when I saw his wife, the earth seemed to me a home for madcaps. + +Yea, I would that the earth shook with convulsions when a saint and a +goose mate with one another. + +This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero, and at last got for +himself a small decked-up lie: his marriage he calleth it. + +That one was reserved in intercourse and chose choicely. But one time he +spoilt his company for all time: his marriage he calleth it. + +Another sought a handmaid with the virtues of an angel. But all at once +he became the handmaid of a woman, and now would he need also to become +an angel. + +Careful, have I found all buyers, and all of them have astute eyes. But +even the astutest of them buyeth his wife in a sack. + +Many short follies—that is called love by you. And your marriage +putteth an end to many short follies, with one long stupidity. + +Your love to woman, and woman’s love to man—ah, would that it were +sympathy for suffering and veiled deities! But generally two animals +alight on one another. + +But even your best love is only an enraptured simile and a painful +ardour. It is a torch to light you to loftier paths. + +Beyond yourselves shall ye love some day! Then LEARN first of all to +love. And on that account ye had to drink the bitter cup of your love. + +Bitterness is in the cup even of the best love: thus doth it cause +longing for the Superman; thus doth it cause thirst in thee, the +creating one! + +Thirst in the creating one, arrow and longing for the Superman: tell me, +my brother, is this thy will to marriage? + +Holy call I such a will, and such a marriage.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXI. VOLUNTARY DEATH. + + +Many die too late, and some die too early. Yet strange soundeth the +precept: “Die at the right time!” + +Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra. + +To be sure, he who never liveth at the right time, how could he ever die +at the right time? Would that he might never be born!—Thus do I advise +the superfluous ones. + +But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even +the hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked. + +Every one regardeth dying as a great matter: but as yet death is not +a festival. Not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest +festivals. + +The consummating death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and +promise to the living. + +His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping +and promising ones. + +Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no festival at which +such a dying one doth not consecrate the oaths of the living! + +Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is to die in battle, and +sacrifice a great soul. + +But to the fighter equally hateful as to the victor, is your grinning +death which stealeth nigh like a thief,—and yet cometh as master. + +My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary death, which cometh unto me +because _I_ want it. + +And when shall I want it?—He that hath a goal and an heir, wanteth +death at the right time for the goal and the heir. + +And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no more +withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life. + +Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their +cord, and thereby go ever backward. + +Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a +toothless mouth hath no longer the right to every truth. + +And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and +practise the difficult art of—going at the right time. + +One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is +known by those who want to be long loved. + +Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last +day of autumn: and at the same time they become ripe, yellow, and +shrivelled. + +In some ageth the heart first, and in others the spirit. And some are +hoary in youth, but the late young keep long young. + +To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm gnaweth at their heart. +Then let them see to it that their dying is all the more a success. + +Many never become sweet; they rot even in the summer. It is cowardice +that holdeth them fast to their branches. + +Far too many live, and far too long hang they on their branches. Would +that a storm came and shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from +the tree! + +Would that there came preachers of SPEEDY death! Those would be the +appropriate storms and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only +slow death preached, and patience with all that is “earthly.” + +Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that +hath too much patience with you, ye blasphemers! + +Verily, too early died that Hebrew whom the preachers of slow death +honour: and to many hath it proved a calamity that he died too early. + +As yet had he known only tears, and the melancholy of the Hebrews, +together with the hatred of the good and just—the Hebrew Jesus: then +was he seized with the longing for death. + +Had he but remained in the wilderness, and far from the good and just! +Then, perhaps, would he have learned to live, and love the earth—and +laughter also! + +Believe it, my brethren! He died too early; he himself would have +disavowed his doctrine had he attained to my age! Noble enough was he to +disavow! + +But he was still immature. Immaturely loveth the youth, and immaturely +also hateth he man and earth. Confined and awkward are still his soul +and the wings of his spirit. + +But in man there is more of the child than in the youth, and less of +melancholy: better understandeth he about life and death. + +Free for death, and free in death; a holy Naysayer, when there is no +longer time for Yea: thus understandeth he about death and life. + +That your dying may not be a reproach to man and the earth, my friends: +that do I solicit from the honey of your soul. + +In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still shine like an +evening after-glow around the earth: otherwise your dying hath been +unsatisfactory. + +Thus will I die myself, that ye friends may love the earth more for my +sake; and earth will I again become, to have rest in her that bore me. + +Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw his ball. Now be ye friends the +heirs of my goal; to you throw I the golden ball. + +Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the golden ball! And so +tarry I still a little while on the earth—pardon me for it! + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXII. THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. + + +1. + +When Zarathustra had taken leave of the town to which his heart was +attached, the name of which is “The Pied Cow,” there followed him many +people who called themselves his disciples, and kept him company. Thus +came they to a crossroad. Then Zarathustra told them that he now wanted +to go alone; for he was fond of going alone. His disciples, however, +presented him at his departure with a staff, on the golden handle of +which a serpent twined round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on account +of the staff, and supported himself thereon; then spake he thus to his +disciples: + +Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is +uncommon, and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always +bestoweth itself. + +Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to the highest value. +Goldlike, beameth the glance of the bestower. Gold-lustre maketh peace +between moon and sun. + +Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting, beaming is it, and soft +of lustre: a bestowing virtue is the highest virtue. + +Verily, I divine you well, my disciples: ye strive like me for the +bestowing virtue. What should ye have in common with cats and wolves? + +It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts yourselves: and +therefore have ye the thirst to accumulate all riches in your soul. + +Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels, because your +virtue is insatiable in desiring to bestow. + +Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and into you, so that they +shall flow back again out of your fountain as the gifts of your love. + +Verily, an appropriator of all values must such bestowing love become; +but healthy and holy, call I this selfishness.— + +Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and hungry kind, which +would always steal—the selfishness of the sick, the sickly selfishness. + +With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that is lustrous; with the +craving of hunger it measureth him who hath abundance; and ever doth it +prowl round the tables of bestowers. + +Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible degeneration; of a +sickly body, speaketh the larcenous craving of this selfishness. + +Tell me, my brother, what do we think bad, and worst of all? Is it not +DEGENERATION?—And we always suspect degeneration when the bestowing +soul is lacking. + +Upward goeth our course from genera on to super-genera. But a horror to +us is the degenerating sense, which saith: “All for myself.” + +Upward soareth our sense: thus is it a simile of our body, a simile of +an elevation. Such similes of elevations are the names of the virtues. + +Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer and fighter. And the +spirit—what is it to the body? Its fights’ and victories’ herald, its +companion and echo. + +Similes, are all names of good and evil; they do not speak out, they +only hint. A fool who seeketh knowledge from them! + +Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your spirit would speak in +similes: there is the origin of your virtue. + +Elevated is then your body, and raised up; with its delight, enraptureth +it the spirit; so that it becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and +everything’s benefactor. + +When your heart overfloweth broad and full like the river, a blessing +and a danger to the lowlanders: there is the origin of your virtue. + +When ye are exalted above praise and blame, and your will would command +all things, as a loving one’s will: there is the origin of your virtue. + +When ye despise pleasant things, and the effeminate couch, and cannot +couch far enough from the effeminate: there is the origin of your +virtue. + +When ye are willers of one will, and when that change of every need is +needful to you: there is the origin of your virtue. + +Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily, a new deep murmuring, and the +voice of a new fountain! + +Power is it, this new virtue; a ruling thought is it, and around it a +subtle soul: a golden sun, with the serpent of knowledge around it. + +2. + +Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked lovingly on his disciples. +Then he continued to speak thus—and his voice had changed: + +Remain true to the earth, my brethren, with the power of your virtue! +Let your bestowing love and your knowledge be devoted to be the meaning +of the earth! Thus do I pray and conjure you. + +Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat against eternal walls with +its wings! Ah, there hath always been so much flown-away virtue! + +Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue back to the earth—yea, back +to body and life: that it may give to the earth its meaning, a human +meaning! + +A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as virtue flown away +and blundered. Alas! in our body dwelleth still all this delusion and +blundering: body and will hath it there become. + +A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as virtue attempted and +erred. Yea, an attempt hath man been. Alas, much ignorance and error +hath become embodied in us! + +Not only the rationality of millenniums—also their madness, breaketh +out in us. Dangerous is it to be an heir. + +Still fight we step by step with the giant Chance, and over all mankind +hath hitherto ruled nonsense, the lack-of-sense. + +Let your spirit and your virtue be devoted to the sense of the earth, +my brethren: let the value of everything be determined anew by you! +Therefore shall ye be fighters! Therefore shall ye be creators! + +Intelligently doth the body purify itself; attempting with intelligence +it exalteth itself; to the discerners all impulses sanctify themselves; +to the exalted the soul becometh joyful. + +Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also heal thy patient. Let it be +his best cure to see with his eyes him who maketh himself whole. + +A thousand paths are there which have never yet been trodden; a thousand +salubrities and hidden islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is +still man and man’s world. + +Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From the future come winds with +stealthy pinions, and to fine ears good tidings are proclaimed. + +Ye lonesome ones of to-day, ye seceding ones, ye shall one day be a +people: out of you who have chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people +arise:—and out of it the Superman. + +Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become! And already is a new +odour diffused around it, a salvation-bringing odour—and a new hope! + +3. + +When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he paused, like one who had not +said his last word; and long did he balance the staff doubtfully in his +hand. At last he spake thus—and his voice had changed: + +I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go away, and alone! So will I +have it. + +Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against +Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath +deceived you. + +The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but also +to hate his friends. + +One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar. And why +will ye not pluck at my wreath? + +Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration should some day collapse? +Take heed lest a statue crush you! + +Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account is Zarathustra! +Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers! + +Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all +believers; therefore all belief is of so little account. + +Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all +denied me, will I return unto you. + +Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; +with another love shall I then love you. + +And once again shall ye have become friends unto me, and children of one +hope: then will I be with you for the third time, to celebrate the great +noontide with you. + +And it is the great noontide, when man is in the middle of his course +between animal and Superman, and celebrateth his advance to the evening +as his highest hope: for it is the advance to a new morning. + +At such time will the down-goer bless himself, that he should be an +over-goer; and the sun of his knowledge will be at noontide. + +“DEAD ARE ALL THE GODS: NOW DO WE DESIRE THE SUPERMAN TO LIVE.”—Let +this be our final will at the great noontide!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. SECOND PART. + + +“—and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you. + +Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; +with another love shall I then love you.”—ZARATHUSTRA, I., “The +Bestowing Virtue.” + + + + +XXIII. THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR. + + +After this Zarathustra returned again into the mountains to the solitude +of his cave, and withdrew himself from men, waiting like a sower who +hath scattered his seed. His soul, however, became impatient and full of +longing for those whom he loved: because he had still much to give them. +For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love, and keep +modest as a giver. + +Thus passed with the lonesome one months and years; his wisdom meanwhile +increased, and caused him pain by its abundance. + +One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy dawn, and having meditated +long on his couch, at last spake thus to his heart: + +Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke? Did not a child come to +me, carrying a mirror? + +“O Zarathustra”—said the child unto me—“look at thyself in the +mirror!” + +But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked, and my heart throbbed: +for not myself did I see therein, but a devil’s grimace and derision. + +Verily, all too well do I understand the dream’s portent and monition: +my DOCTRINE is in danger; tares want to be called wheat! + +Mine enemies have grown powerful and have disfigured the likeness of +my doctrine, so that my dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I +gave them. + +Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me to seek my lost ones!— + +With these words Zarathustra started up, not however like a person in +anguish seeking relief, but rather like a seer and a singer whom the +spirit inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and serpent gaze upon +him: for a coming bliss overspread his countenance like the rosy dawn. + +What hath happened unto me, mine animals?—said Zarathustra. Am I not +transformed? Hath not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind? + +Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will it speak: it is still +too young—so have patience with it! + +Wounded am I by my happiness: all sufferers shall be physicians unto me! + +To my friends can I again go down, and also to mine enemies! Zarathustra +can again speak and bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones! + +My impatient love overfloweth in streams,—down towards sunrise and +sunset. Out of silent mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my +soul into the valleys. + +Too long have I longed and looked into the distance. Too long hath +solitude possessed me: thus have I unlearned to keep silence. + +Utterance have I become altogether, and the brawling of a brook from +high rocks: downward into the valleys will I hurl my speech. + +And let the stream of my love sweep into unfrequented channels! How +should a stream not finally find its way to the sea! + +Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and self-sufficing; but the +stream of my love beareth this along with it, down—to the sea! + +New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto me; tired have I become— +like all creators—of the old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on +worn-out soles. + +Too slowly runneth all speaking for me:—into thy chariot, O storm, do I +leap! And even thee will I whip with my spite! + +Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide seas, till I find the Happy +Isles where my friends sojourn;— + +And mine enemies amongst them! How I now love every one unto whom I may +but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss. + +And when I want to mount my wildest horse, then doth my spear always +help me up best: it is my foot’s ever ready servant:— + +The spear which I hurl at mine enemies! How grateful am I to mine +enemies that I may at last hurl it! + +Too great hath been the tension of my cloud: ‘twixt laughters of +lightnings will I cast hail-showers into the depths. + +Violently will my breast then heave; violently will it blow its storm +over the mountains: thus cometh its assuagement. + +Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and my freedom! But mine +enemies shall think that THE EVIL ONE roareth over their heads. + +Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my wild wisdom; and perhaps +ye will flee therefrom, along with mine enemies. + +Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with shepherds’ flutes! Ah, that +my lioness wisdom would learn to roar softly! And much have we already +learned with one another! + +My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lonesome mountains; on the rough +stones did she bear the youngest of her young. + +Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilderness, and seeketh and +seeketh the soft sward—mine old, wild wisdom! + +On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends!—on your love, would she +fain couch her dearest one!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXIV. IN THE HAPPY ISLES. + + +The figs fall from the trees, they are good and sweet; and in falling +the red skins of them break. A north wind am I to ripe figs. + +Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you, my friends: imbibe +now their juice and their sweet substance! It is autumn all around, and +clear sky, and afternoon. + +Lo, what fulness is around us! And out of the midst of superabundance, +it is delightful to look out upon distant seas. + +Once did people say God, when they looked out upon distant seas; now, +however, have I taught you to say, Superman. + +God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond +your creating will. + +Could ye CREATE a God?—Then, I pray you, be silent about all Gods! But +ye could well create the Superman. + +Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But into fathers and forefathers +of the Superman could ye transform yourselves: and let that be your best +creating!— + +God is a conjecture: but I should like your conjecturing restricted to +the conceivable. + +Could ye CONCEIVE a God?—But let this mean Will to Truth unto you, +that everything be transformed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly +visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discernment shall ye follow out +to the end! + +And what ye have called the world shall but be created by you: your +reason, your likeness, your will, your love, shall it itself become! And +verily, for your bliss, ye discerning ones! + +And how would ye endure life without that hope, ye discerning ones? +Neither in the inconceivable could ye have been born, nor in the +irrational. + +But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto you, my friends: IF there +were gods, how could I endure it to be no God! THEREFORE there are no +Gods. + +Yea, I have drawn the conclusion; now, however, doth it draw me.— + +God is a conjecture: but who could drink all the bitterness of this +conjecture without dying? Shall his faith be taken from the creating +one, and from the eagle his flights into eagle-heights? + +God is a thought—it maketh all the straight crooked, and all that +standeth reel. What? Time would be gone, and all the perishable would be +but a lie? + +To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human limbs, and even vomiting +to the stomach: verily, the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture +such a thing. + +Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teaching about the one, and +the plenum, and the unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable! + +All the imperishable—that’s but a simile, and the poets lie too much.— + +But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall +they be, and a justification of all perishableness! + +Creating—that is the great salvation from suffering, and life’s +alleviation. But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed, +and much transformation. + +Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! Thus are +ye advocates and justifiers of all perishableness. + +For the creator himself to be the new-born child, he must also +be willing to be the child-bearer, and endure the pangs of the +child-bearer. + +Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way, and through a hundred +cradles and birth-throes. Many a farewell have I taken; I know the +heart-breaking last hours. + +But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or, to tell you it more +candidly: just such a fate—willeth my Will. + +All FEELING suffereth in me, and is in prison: but my WILLING ever +cometh to me as mine emancipator and comforter. + +Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will and +emancipation—so teacheth you Zarathustra. + +No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no longer creating! Ah, +that that great debility may ever be far from me! + +And also in discerning do I feel only my will’s procreating and evolving +delight; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because there +is will to procreation in it. + +Away from God and Gods did this will allure me; what would there be to +create if there were—Gods! + +But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent creative will; thus +impelleth it the hammer to the stone. + +Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image for me, the image of my +visions! Ah, that it should slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone! + +Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone fly +the fragments: what’s that to me? + +I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—the stillest and lightest +of all things once came unto me! + +The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of +what account now are—the Gods to me!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXV. THE PITIFUL. + + +My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your friend: “Behold +Zarathustra! Walketh he not amongst us as if amongst animals?” + +But it is better said in this wise: “The discerning one walketh amongst +men AS amongst animals.” + +Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal with red cheeks. + +How hath that happened unto him? Is it not because he hath had to be +ashamed too oft? + +O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning one: shame, shame, +shame—that is the history of man! + +And on that account doth the noble one enjoin upon himself not to abash: +bashfulness doth he enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers. + +Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose bliss is in their +pity: too destitute are they of bashfulness. + +If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so; and if I be so, it is +preferably at a distance. + +Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee, before being recognised: +and thus do I bid you do, my friends! + +May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like you across my path, and +those with whom I MAY have hope and repast and honey in common! + +Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but something +better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself +better. + +Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: +that alone, my brethren, is our original sin! + +And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we unlearn best to +give pain unto others, and to contrive pain. + +Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped the sufferer; therefore do +I wipe also my soul. + +For in seeing the sufferer suffering—thereof was I ashamed on account +of his shame; and in helping him, sorely did I wound his pride. + +Great obligations do not make grateful, but revengeful; and when a small +kindness is not forgotten, it becometh a gnawing worm. + +“Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accepting!”—thus do I advise those +who have naught to bestow. + +I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow as friend to friends. +Strangers, however, and the poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit +from my tree: thus doth it cause less shame. + +Beggars, however, one should entirely do away with! Verily, it annoyeth +one to give unto them, and it annoyeth one not to give unto them. + +And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the +sting of conscience teacheth one to sting. + +The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to +have done evilly than to have thought pettily! + +To be sure, ye say: “The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great +evil deed.” But here one should not wish to be sparing. + +Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh +forth—it speaketh honourably. + +“Behold, I am disease,” saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness. + +But like infection is the petty thought: it creepeth and hideth, and +wanteth to be nowhere—until the whole body is decayed and withered by +the petty infection. + +To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I would whisper this word +in the ear: “Better for thee to rear up thy devil! Even for thee there +is still a path to greatness!”— + +Ah, my brethren! One knoweth a little too much about every one! And many +a one becometh transparent to us, but still we can by no means penetrate +him. + +It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult. + +And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who +doth not concern us at all. + +If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a resting-place for +his suffering; like a hard bed, however, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou +serve him best. + +And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: “I forgive thee what thou +hast done unto me; that thou hast done it unto THYSELF, however—how +could I forgive that!” + +Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity. + +One should hold fast one’s heart; for when one letteth it go, how +quickly doth one’s head run away! + +Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the +pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the +follies of the pitiful? + +Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their +pity! + +Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: “Even God hath his hell: +it is his love for man.” + +And lately, did I hear him say these words: “God is dead: of his pity +for man hath God died.”— + +So be ye warned against pity: FROM THENCE there yet cometh unto men a +heavy cloud! Verily, I understand weather-signs! + +But attend also to this word: All great love is above all its pity: for +it seeketh—to create what is loved! + +“Myself do I offer unto my love, AND MY NEIGHBOUR AS MYSELF”—such is +the language of all creators. + +All creators, however, are hard.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXVI. THE PRIESTS. + + +And one day Zarathustra made a sign to his disciples, and spake these +words unto them: + +“Here are priests: but although they are mine enemies, pass them quietly +and with sleeping swords! + +Even among them there are heroes; many of them have suffered too much—: +so they want to make others suffer. + +Bad enemies are they: nothing is more revengeful than their meekness. +And readily doth he soil himself who toucheth them. + +But my blood is related to theirs; and I want withal to see my blood +honoured in theirs.”— + +And when they had passed, a pain attacked Zarathustra; but not long had +he struggled with the pain, when he began to speak thus: + +It moveth my heart for those priests. They also go against my taste; but +that is the smallest matter unto me, since I am among men. + +But I suffer and have suffered with them: prisoners are they unto me, +and stigmatised ones. He whom they call Saviour put them in fetters:— + +In fetters of false values and fatuous words! Oh, that some one would +save them from their Saviour! + +On an isle they once thought they had landed, when the sea tossed them +about; but behold, it was a slumbering monster! + +False values and fatuous words: these are the worst monsters for +mortals—long slumbereth and waiteth the fate that is in them. + +But at last it cometh and awaketh and devoureth and engulfeth whatever +hath built tabernacles upon it. + +Oh, just look at those tabernacles which those priests have built +themselves! Churches, they call their sweet-smelling caves! + +Oh, that falsified light, that mustified air! Where the soul—may not +fly aloft to its height! + +But so enjoineth their belief: “On your knees, up the stair, ye +sinners!” + +Verily, rather would I see a shameless one than the distorted eyes of +their shame and devotion! + +Who created for themselves such caves and penitence-stairs? Was it not +those who sought to conceal themselves, and were ashamed under the clear +sky? + +And only when the clear sky looketh again through ruined roofs, and down +upon grass and red poppies on ruined walls—will I again turn my heart +to the seats of this God. + +They called God that which opposed and afflicted them: and verily, there +was much hero-spirit in their worship! + +And they knew not how to love their God otherwise than by nailing men to +the cross! + +As corpses they thought to live; in black draped they their corpses; +even in their talk do I still feel the evil flavour of charnel-houses. + +And he who liveth nigh unto them liveth nigh unto black pools, wherein +the toad singeth his song with sweet gravity. + +Better songs would they have to sing, for me to believe in their +Saviour: more like saved ones would his disciples have to appear unto +me! + +Naked, would I like to see them: for beauty alone should preach +penitence. But whom would that disguised affliction convince! + +Verily, their Saviours themselves came not from freedom and freedom’s +seventh heaven! Verily, they themselves never trod the carpets of +knowledge! + +Of defects did the spirit of those Saviours consist; but into every +defect had they put their illusion, their stop-gap, which they called +God. + +In their pity was their spirit drowned; and when they swelled and +o’erswelled with pity, there always floated to the surface a great +folly. + +Eagerly and with shouts drove they their flock over their foot-bridge; +as if there were but one foot-bridge to the future! Verily, those +shepherds also were still of the flock! + +Small spirits and spacious souls had those shepherds: but, my brethren, +what small domains have even the most spacious souls hitherto been! + +Characters of blood did they write on the way they went, and their folly +taught that truth is proved by blood. + +But blood is the very worst witness to truth; blood tainteth the purest +teaching, and turneth it into delusion and hatred of heart. + +And when a person goeth through fire for his teaching—what doth that +prove! It is more, verily, when out of one’s own burning cometh one’s +own teaching! + +Sultry heart and cold head; where these meet, there ariseth the +blusterer, the “Saviour.” + +Greater ones, verily, have there been, and higher-born ones, than those +whom the people call Saviours, those rapturous blusterers! + +And by still greater ones than any of the Saviours must ye be saved, my +brethren, if ye would find the way to freedom! + +Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, +the greatest man and the smallest man:— + +All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily, even the greatest +found I—all-too-human!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXVII. THE VIRTUOUS. + + +With thunder and heavenly fireworks must one speak to indolent and +somnolent senses. + +But beauty’s voice speaketh gently: it appealeth only to the most +awakened souls. + +Gently vibrated and laughed unto me to-day my buckler; it was beauty’s +holy laughing and thrilling. + +At you, ye virtuous ones, laughed my beauty to-day. And thus came its +voice unto me: “They want—to be paid besides!” + +Ye want to be paid besides, ye virtuous ones! Ye want reward for virtue, +and heaven for earth, and eternity for your to-day? + +And now ye upbraid me for teaching that there is no reward-giver, +nor paymaster? And verily, I do not even teach that virtue is its own +reward. + +Ah! this is my sorrow: into the basis of things have reward and +punishment been insinuated—and now even into the basis of your souls, +ye virtuous ones! + +But like the snout of the boar shall my word grub up the basis of your +souls; a ploughshare will I be called by you. + +All the secrets of your heart shall be brought to light; and when ye +lie in the sun, grubbed up and broken, then will also your falsehood be +separated from your truth. + +For this is your truth: ye are TOO PURE for the filth of the words: +vengeance, punishment, recompense, retribution. + +Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child; but when did one hear +of a mother wanting to be paid for her love? + +It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring’s thirst is in you: to +reach itself again struggleth every ring, and turneth itself. + +And like the star that goeth out, so is every work of your virtue: ever +is its light on its way and travelling—and when will it cease to be on +its way? + +Thus is the light of your virtue still on its way, even when its work +is done. Be it forgotten and dead, still its ray of light liveth and +travelleth. + +That your virtue is your Self, and not an outward thing, a skin, or +a cloak: that is the truth from the basis of your souls, ye virtuous +ones!— + +But sure enough there are those to whom virtue meaneth writhing under +the lash: and ye have hearkened too much unto their crying! + +And others are there who call virtue the slothfulness of their vices; +and when once their hatred and jealousy relax the limbs, their “justice” + becometh lively and rubbeth its sleepy eyes. + +And others are there who are drawn downwards: their devils draw them. +But the more they sink, the more ardently gloweth their eye, and the +longing for their God. + +Ah! their crying also hath reached your ears, ye virtuous ones: “What I +am NOT, that, that is God to me, and virtue!” + +And others are there who go along heavily and creakingly, like carts +taking stones downhill: they talk much of dignity and virtue—their drag +they call virtue! + +And others are there who are like eight-day clocks when wound up; they +tick, and want people to call ticking—virtue. + +Verily, in those have I mine amusement: wherever I find such clocks I +shall wind them up with my mockery, and they shall even whirr thereby! + +And others are proud of their modicum of righteousness, and for the sake +of it do violence to all things: so that the world is drowned in their +unrighteousness. + +Ah! how ineptly cometh the word “virtue” out of their mouth! And when +they say: “I am just,” it always soundeth like: “I am just—revenged!” + +With their virtues they want to scratch out the eyes of their enemies; +and they elevate themselves only that they may lower others. + +And again there are those who sit in their swamp, and speak thus from +among the bulrushes: “Virtue—that is to sit quietly in the swamp. + +We bite no one, and go out of the way of him who would bite; and in all +matters we have the opinion that is given us.” + +And again there are those who love attitudes, and think that virtue is a +sort of attitude. + +Their knees continually adore, and their hands are eulogies of virtue, +but their heart knoweth naught thereof. + +And again there are those who regard it as virtue to say: “Virtue +is necessary”; but after all they believe only that policemen are +necessary. + +And many a one who cannot see men’s loftiness, calleth it virtue to see +their baseness far too well: thus calleth he his evil eye virtue.— + +And some want to be edified and raised up, and call it virtue: and +others want to be cast down,—and likewise call it virtue. + +And thus do almost all think that they participate in virtue; and at +least every one claimeth to be an authority on “good” and “evil.” + +But Zarathustra came not to say unto all those liars and fools: “What do +YE know of virtue! What COULD ye know of virtue!”— + +But that ye, my friends, might become weary of the old words which ye +have learned from the fools and liars: + +That ye might become weary of the words “reward,” “retribution,” + “punishment,” “righteous vengeance.”— + +That ye might become weary of saying: “That an action is good is because +it is unselfish.” + +Ah! my friends! That YOUR very Self be in your action, as the mother is +in the child: let that be YOUR formula of virtue! + +Verily, I have taken from you a hundred formulae and your virtue’s +favourite playthings; and now ye upbraid me, as children upbraid. + +They played by the sea—then came there a wave and swept their +playthings into the deep: and now do they cry. + +But the same wave shall bring them new playthings, and spread before +them new speckled shells! + +Thus will they be comforted; and like them shall ye also, my friends, +have your comforting—and new speckled shells!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXVIII. THE RABBLE. + + +Life is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all +fountains are poisoned. + +To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see the grinning +mouths and the thirst of the unclean. + +They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glanceth up to me +their odious smile out of the fountain. + +The holy water have they poisoned with their lustfulness; and when they +called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words. + +Indignant becometh the flame when they put their damp hearts to the +fire; the spirit itself bubbleth and smoketh when the rabble approach +the fire. + +Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit in their hands: unsteady, and +withered at the top, doth their look make the fruit-tree. + +And many a one who hath turned away from life, hath only turned away +from the rabble: he hated to share with them fountain, flame, and fruit. + +And many a one who hath gone into the wilderness and suffered thirst +with beasts of prey, disliked only to sit at the cistern with filthy +camel-drivers. + +And many a one who hath come along as a destroyer, and as a hailstorm +to all cornfields, wanted merely to put his foot into the jaws of the +rabble, and thus stop their throat. + +And it is not the mouthful which hath most choked me, to know that life +itself requireth enmity and death and torture-crosses:— + +But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my question: What? is the +rabble also NECESSARY for life? + +Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking fires, and filthy dreams, +and maggots in the bread of life? + +Not my hatred, but my loathing, gnawed hungrily at my life! Ah, ofttimes +became I weary of spirit, when I found even the rabble spiritual! + +And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw what they now call +ruling: to traffic and bargain for power—with the rabble! + +Amongst peoples of a strange language did I dwell, with stopped ears: so +that the language of their trafficking might remain strange unto me, and +their bargaining for power. + +And holding my nose, I went morosely through all yesterdays and to-days: +verily, badly smell all yesterdays and to-days of the scribbling rabble! + +Like a cripple become deaf, and blind, and dumb—thus have I lived long; +that I might not live with the power-rabble, the scribe-rabble, and the +pleasure-rabble. + +Toilsomely did my spirit mount stairs, and cautiously; alms of delight +were its refreshment; on the staff did life creep along with the blind +one. + +What hath happened unto me? How have I freed myself from loathing? +Who hath rejuvenated mine eye? How have I flown to the height where no +rabble any longer sit at the wells? + +Did my loathing itself create for me wings and fountain-divining powers? +Verily, to the loftiest height had I to fly, to find again the well of +delight! + +Oh, I have found it, my brethren! Here on the loftiest height bubbleth +up for me the well of delight! And there is a life at whose waters none +of the rabble drink with me! + +Almost too violently dost thou flow for me, thou fountain of delight! +And often emptiest thou the goblet again, in wanting to fill it! + +And yet must I learn to approach thee more modestly: far too violently +doth my heart still flow towards thee:— + +My heart on which my summer burneth, my short, hot, melancholy, +over-happy summer: how my summer heart longeth for thy coolness! + +Past, the lingering distress of my spring! Past, the wickedness of my +snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide! + +A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissful +stillness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become more +blissful! + +For this is OUR height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell +for all uncleanly ones and their thirst. + +Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! How +could it become turbid thereby! It shall laugh back to you with ITS +purity. + +On the tree of the future build we our nest; eagles shall bring us lone +ones food in their beaks! + +Verily, no food of which the impure could be fellow-partakers! Fire, +would they think they devoured, and burn their mouths! + +Verily, no abodes do we here keep ready for the impure! An ice-cave to +their bodies would our happiness be, and to their spirits! + +And as strong winds will we live above them, neighbours to the eagles, +neighbours to the snow, neighbours to the sun: thus live the strong +winds. + +And like a wind will I one day blow amongst them, and with my spirit, +take the breath from their spirit: thus willeth my future. + +Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low places; and this counsel +counselleth he to his enemies, and to whatever spitteth and speweth: +“Take care not to spit AGAINST the wind!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXIX. THE TARANTULAS. + + +Lo, this is the tarantula’s den! Wouldst thou see the tarantula itself? +Here hangeth its web: touch this, so that it may tremble. + +There cometh the tarantula willingly: Welcome, tarantula! Black on thy +back is thy triangle and symbol; and I know also what is in thy soul. + +Revenge is in thy soul: wherever thou bitest, there ariseth black scab; +with revenge, thy poison maketh the soul giddy! + +Thus do I speak unto you in parable, ye who make the soul giddy, +ye preachers of EQUALITY! Tarantulas are ye unto me, and secretly +revengeful ones! + +But I will soon bring your hiding-places to the light: therefore do I +laugh in your face my laughter of the height. + +Therefore do I tear at your web, that your rage may lure you out of your +den of lies, and that your revenge may leap forth from behind your word +“justice.” + +Because, FOR MAN TO BE REDEEMED FROM REVENGE—that is for me the bridge +to the highest hope, and a rainbow after long storms. + +Otherwise, however, would the tarantulas have it. “Let it be +very justice for the world to become full of the storms of our +vengeance”—thus do they talk to one another. + +“Vengeance will we use, and insult, against all who are not like +us”—thus do the tarantula-hearts pledge themselves. + +“And ‘Will to Equality’—that itself shall henceforth be the name of +virtue; and against all that hath power will we raise an outcry!” + +Ye preachers of equality, the tyrant-frenzy of impotence crieth thus in +you for “equality”: your most secret tyrant-longings disguise themselves +thus in virtue-words! + +Fretted conceit and suppressed envy—perhaps your fathers’ conceit and +envy: in you break they forth as flame and frenzy of vengeance. + +What the father hath hid cometh out in the son; and oft have I found in +the son the father’s revealed secret. + +Inspired ones they resemble: but it is not the heart that inspireth +them—but vengeance. And when they become subtle and cold, it is not +spirit, but envy, that maketh them so. + +Their jealousy leadeth them also into thinkers’ paths; and this is the +sign of their jealousy—they always go too far: so that their fatigue +hath at last to go to sleep on the snow. + +In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance, in all their eulogies is +maleficence; and being judge seemeth to them bliss. + +But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse +to punish is powerful! + +They are people of bad race and lineage; out of their countenances peer +the hangman and the sleuth-hound. + +Distrust all those who talk much of their justice! Verily, in their +souls not only honey is lacking. + +And when they call themselves “the good and just,” forget not, that for +them to be Pharisees, nothing is lacking but—power! + +My friends, I will not be mixed up and confounded with others. + +There are those who preach my doctrine of life, and are at the same time +preachers of equality, and tarantulas. + +That they speak in favour of life, though they sit in their den, these +poison-spiders, and withdrawn from life—is because they would thereby +do injury. + +To those would they thereby do injury who have power at present: for +with those the preaching of death is still most at home. + +Were it otherwise, then would the tarantulas teach otherwise: and they +themselves were formerly the best world-maligners and heretic-burners. + +With these preachers of equality will I not be mixed up and confounded. +For thus speaketh justice UNTO ME: “Men are not equal.” + +And neither shall they become so! What would be my love to the Superman, +if I spake otherwise? + +On a thousand bridges and piers shall they throng to the future, and +always shall there be more war and inequality among them: thus doth my +great love make me speak! + +Inventors of figures and phantoms shall they be in their hostilities; +and with those figures and phantoms shall they yet fight with each other +the supreme fight! + +Good and evil, and rich and poor, and high and low, and all names of +values: weapons shall they be, and sounding signs, that life must again +and again surpass itself! + +Aloft will it build itself with columns and stairs—life itself: into +remote distances would it gaze, and out towards blissful beauties— +THEREFORE doth it require elevation! + +And because it requireth elevation, therefore doth it require steps, and +variance of steps and climbers! To rise striveth life, and in rising to +surpass itself. + +And just behold, my friends! Here where the tarantula’s den is, riseth +aloft an ancient temple’s ruins—just behold it with enlightened eyes! + +Verily, he who here towered aloft his thoughts in stone, knew as well as +the wisest ones about the secret of life! + +That there is struggle and inequality even in beauty, and war for power +and supremacy: that doth he here teach us in the plainest parable. + +How divinely do vault and arch here contrast in the struggle: how with +light and shade they strive against each other, the divinely striving +ones.— + +Thus, steadfast and beautiful, let us also be enemies, my friends! +Divinely will we strive AGAINST one another!— + +Alas! There hath the tarantula bit me myself, mine old enemy! Divinely +steadfast and beautiful, it hath bit me on the finger! + +“Punishment must there be, and justice”—so thinketh it: “not +gratuitously shall he here sing songs in honour of enmity!” + +Yea, it hath revenged itself! And alas! now will it make my soul also +dizzy with revenge! + +That I may NOT turn dizzy, however, bind me fast, my friends, to this +pillar! Rather will I be a pillar-saint than a whirl of vengeance! + +Verily, no cyclone or whirlwind is Zarathustra: and if he be a dancer, +he is not at all a tarantula-dancer!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXX. THE FAMOUS WISE ONES. + + +The people have ye served and the people’s superstition—NOT the +truth!—all ye famous wise ones! And just on that account did they pay +you reverence. + +And on that account also did they tolerate your unbelief, because it +was a pleasantry and a by-path for the people. Thus doth the master give +free scope to his slaves, and even enjoyeth their presumptuousness. + +But he who is hated by the people, as the wolf by the dogs—is the free +spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods. + +To hunt him out of his lair—that was always called “sense of right” by +the people: on him do they still hound their sharpest-toothed dogs. + +“For there the truth is, where the people are! Woe, woe to the seeking +ones!”—thus hath it echoed through all time. + +Your people would ye justify in their reverence: that called ye “Will to +Truth,” ye famous wise ones! + +And your heart hath always said to itself: “From the people have I come: +from thence came to me also the voice of God.” + +Stiff-necked and artful, like the ass, have ye always been, as the +advocates of the people. + +And many a powerful one who wanted to run well with the people, hath +harnessed in front of his horses—a donkey, a famous wise man. + +And now, ye famous wise ones, I would have you finally throw off +entirely the skin of the lion! + +The skin of the beast of prey, the speckled skin, and the dishevelled +locks of the investigator, the searcher, and the conqueror! + +Ah! for me to learn to believe in your “conscientiousness,” ye would +first have to break your venerating will. + +Conscientious—so call I him who goeth into God-forsaken wildernesses, +and hath broken his venerating heart. + +In the yellow sands and burnt by the sun, he doubtless peereth thirstily +at the isles rich in fountains, where life reposeth under shady trees. + +But his thirst doth not persuade him to become like those comfortable +ones: for where there are oases, there are also idols. + +Hungry, fierce, lonesome, God-forsaken: so doth the lion-will wish +itself. + +Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from Deities and adorations, +fearless and fear-inspiring, grand and lonesome: so is the will of the +conscientious. + +In the wilderness have ever dwelt the conscientious, the free spirits, +as lords of the wilderness; but in the cities dwell the well-foddered, +famous wise ones—the draught-beasts. + +For, always, do they draw, as asses—the PEOPLE’S carts! + +Not that I on that account upbraid them: but serving ones do they +remain, and harnessed ones, even though they glitter in golden harness. + +And often have they been good servants and worthy of their hire. For +thus saith virtue: “If thou must be a servant, seek him unto whom thy +service is most useful! + +The spirit and virtue of thy master shall advance by thou being his +servant: thus wilt thou thyself advance with his spirit and virtue!” + +And verily, ye famous wise ones, ye servants of the people! Ye +yourselves have advanced with the people’s spirit and virtue—and the +people by you! To your honour do I say it! + +But the people ye remain for me, even with your virtues, the people with +purblind eyes—the people who know not what SPIRIT is! + +Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life: by its own torture doth +it increase its own knowledge,—did ye know that before? + +And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and consecrated with +tears as a sacrificial victim,—did ye know that before? + +And the blindness of the blind one, and his seeking and groping, shall +yet testify to the power of the sun into which he hath gazed,—did ye +know that before? + +And with mountains shall the discerning one learn to BUILD! It is +a small thing for the spirit to remove mountains,—did ye know that +before? + +Ye know only the sparks of the spirit: but ye do not see the anvil which +it is, and the cruelty of its hammer! + +Verily, ye know not the spirit’s pride! But still less could ye endure +the spirit’s humility, should it ever want to speak! + +And never yet could ye cast your spirit into a pit of snow: ye are not +hot enough for that! Thus are ye unaware, also, of the delight of its +coldness. + +In all respects, however, ye make too familiar with the spirit; and out +of wisdom have ye often made an almshouse and a hospital for bad poets. + +Ye are not eagles: thus have ye never experienced the happiness of the +alarm of the spirit. And he who is not a bird should not camp above +abysses. + +Ye seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly floweth all deep knowledge. +Ice-cold are the innermost wells of the spirit: a refreshment to hot +hands and handlers. + +Respectable do ye there stand, and stiff, and with straight backs, ye +famous wise ones!—no strong wind or will impelleth you. + +Have ye ne’er seen a sail crossing the sea, rounded and inflated, and +trembling with the violence of the wind? + +Like the sail trembling with the violence of the spirit, doth my wisdom +cross the sea—my wild wisdom! + +But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise ones—how COULD ye go with +me!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXI. THE NIGHT-SONG. + + +‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also +is a gushing fountain. + +‘Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul +also is the song of a loving one. + +Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longeth to find +expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the +language of love. + +Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be +begirt with light! + +Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of +light! + +And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms +aloft!—and would rejoice in the gifts of your light. + +But I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that +break forth from me. + +I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that +stealing must be more blessed than receiving. + +It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy +that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing. + +Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the +craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety! + +They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap ‘twixt +giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged +over. + +A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I +illumine; I should like to rob those I have gifted:—thus do I hunger +for wickedness. + +Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretcheth out to it; +hesitating like the cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap:—thus do +I hunger for wickedness! + +Such revenge doth mine abundance think of: such mischief welleth out of +my lonesomeness. + +My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of +itself by its abundance! + +He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing his shame; to him who ever +dispenseth, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing. + +Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath +become too hard for the trembling of filled hands. + +Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, +the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones! + +Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with +their light—but to me they are silent. + +Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpityingly doth +it pursue its course. + +Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the +suns:—thus travelleth every sun. + +Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. +Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness. + +Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the +shining ones! Oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light’s +udders! + +Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there +is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst! + +‘Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! +And lonesomeness! + +‘Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain,—for +speech do I long. + +‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also +is a gushing fountain. + +‘Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is +the song of a loving one.— + +Thus sang Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXII. THE DANCE-SONG. + + +One evening went Zarathustra and his disciples through the forest; and +when he sought for a well, lo, he lighted upon a green meadow peacefully +surrounded with trees and bushes, where maidens were dancing together. +As soon as the maidens recognised Zarathustra, they ceased dancing; +Zarathustra, however, approached them with friendly mien and spake these +words: + +Cease not your dancing, ye lovely maidens! No game-spoiler hath come to +you with evil eye, no enemy of maidens. + +God’s advocate am I with the devil: he, however, is the spirit of +gravity. How could I, ye light-footed ones, be hostile to divine dances? +Or to maidens’ feet with fine ankles? + +To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not +afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses. + +And even the little God may he find, who is dearest to maidens: beside +the well lieth he quietly, with closed eyes. + +Verily, in broad daylight did he fall asleep, the sluggard! Had he +perhaps chased butterflies too much? + +Upbraid me not, ye beautiful dancers, when I chasten the little God +somewhat! He will cry, certainly, and weep—but he is laughable even +when weeping! + +And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a dance; and I myself +will sing a song to his dance: + +A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity my supremest, +powerfulest devil, who is said to be “lord of the world.”— + +And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when Cupid and the maidens +danced together: + +Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life! And into the unfathomable did +I there seem to sink. + +But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle; derisively didst thou +laugh when I called thee unfathomable. + +“Such is the language of all fish,” saidst thou; “what THEY do not +fathom is unfathomable. + +But changeable am I only, and wild, and altogether a woman, and no +virtuous one: + +Though I be called by you men the ‘profound one,’ or the ‘faithful one,’ +‘the eternal one,’ ‘the mysterious one.’ + +But ye men endow us always with your own virtues—alas, ye virtuous +ones!” + +Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but never do I believe her and +her laughter, when she speaketh evil of herself. + +And when I talked face to face with my wild Wisdom, she said to me +angrily: “Thou willest, thou cravest, thou lovest; on that account alone +dost thou PRAISE Life!” + +Then had I almost answered indignantly and told the truth to the angry +one; and one cannot answer more indignantly than when one “telleth the +truth” to one’s Wisdom. + +For thus do things stand with us three. In my heart do I love only +Life—and verily, most when I hate her! + +But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too fond, is because she +remindeth me very strongly of Life! + +She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden angle-rod: am I +responsible for it that both are so alike? + +And when once Life asked me: “Who is she then, this Wisdom?”—then said +I eagerly: “Ah, yes! Wisdom! + +One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one looketh through veils, +one graspeth through nets. + +Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured +by her. + +Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and +pass the comb against the grain of her hair. + +Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she +speaketh ill of herself, just then doth she seduce most.” + +When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she maliciously, and shut +her eyes. “Of whom dost thou speak?” said she. “Perhaps of me? + +And if thou wert right—is it proper to say THAT in such wise to my +face! But now, pray, speak also of thy Wisdom!” + +Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine eyes, O beloved Life! And into +the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink.— + +Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had +departed, he became sad. + +“The sun hath been long set,” said he at last, “the meadow is damp, and +from the forest cometh coolness. + +An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou +livest still, Zarathustra? + +Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to +live?— + +Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me. +Forgive me my sadness! + +Evening hath come on: forgive me that evening hath come on!” + +Thus sang Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXIII. THE GRAVE-SONG. + + +“Yonder is the grave-island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves +of my youth. Thither will I carry an evergreen wreath of life.” + +Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o’er the sea.— + +Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all ye gleams of love, ye +divine fleeting gleams! How could ye perish so soon for me! I think of +you to-day as my dead ones. + +From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto me a sweet savour, +heart-opening and melting. Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart +of the lone seafarer. + +Still am I the richest and most to be envied—I, the lonesomest one! +For I HAVE POSSESSED you, and ye possess me still. Tell me: to whom hath +there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen unto me? + +Still am I your love’s heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with +many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O ye dearest ones! + +Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each other, ye kindly strange +marvels; and not like timid birds did ye come to me and my longing—nay, +but as trusting ones to a trusting one! + +Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities, must I now +name you by your faithlessness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams: +no other name have I yet learnt. + +Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives. Yet did ye not flee +from me, nor did I flee from you: innocent are we to each other in our +faithlessness. + +To kill ME, did they strangle you, ye singing birds of my hopes! Yea, at +you, ye dearest ones, did malice ever shoot its arrows—to hit my heart! + +And they hit it! Because ye were always my dearest, my possession and my +possessedness: ON THAT ACCOUNT had ye to die young, and far too early! + +At my most vulnerable point did they shoot the arrow—namely, at you, +whose skin is like down—or more like the smile that dieth at a glance! + +But this word will I say unto mine enemies: What is all manslaughter in +comparison with what ye have done unto me! + +Worse evil did ye do unto me than all manslaughter; the irretrievable +did ye take from me:—thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies! + +Slew ye not my youth’s visions and dearest marvels! My playmates took ye +from me, the blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit this wreath +and this curse. + +This curse upon you, mine enemies! Have ye not made mine eternal short, +as a tone dieth away in a cold night! Scarcely, as the twinkle of divine +eyes, did it come to me—as a fleeting gleam! + +Thus spake once in a happy hour my purity: “Divine shall everything be +unto me.” + +Then did ye haunt me with foul phantoms; ah, whither hath that happy +hour now fled! + +“All days shall be holy unto me”—so spake once the wisdom of my youth: +verily, the language of a joyous wisdom! + +But then did ye enemies steal my nights, and sold them to sleepless +torture: ah, whither hath that joyous wisdom now fled? + +Once did I long for happy auspices: then did ye lead an owl-monster +across my path, an adverse sign. Ah, whither did my tender longing then +flee? + +All loathing did I once vow to renounce: then did ye change my nigh ones +and nearest ones into ulcerations. Ah, whither did my noblest vow then +flee? + +As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways: then did ye cast +filth on the blind one’s course: and now is he disgusted with the old +footpath. + +And when I performed my hardest task, and celebrated the triumph of +my victories, then did ye make those who loved me call out that I then +grieved them most. + +Verily, it was always your doing: ye embittered to me my best honey, and +the diligence of my best bees. + +To my charity have ye ever sent the most impudent beggars; around my +sympathy have ye ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus have ye +wounded the faith of my virtue. + +And when I offered my holiest as a sacrifice, immediately did your +“piety” put its fatter gifts beside it: so that my holiest suffocated in +the fumes of your fat. + +And once did I want to dance as I had never yet danced: beyond all +heavens did I want to dance. Then did ye seduce my favourite minstrel. + +And now hath he struck up an awful, melancholy air; alas, he tooted as a +mournful horn to mine ear! + +Murderous minstrel, instrument of evil, most innocent instrument! +Already did I stand prepared for the best dance: then didst thou slay my +rapture with thy tones! + +Only in the dance do I know how to speak the parable of the highest +things:—and now hath my grandest parable remained unspoken in my limbs! + +Unspoken and unrealised hath my highest hope remained! And there have +perished for me all the visions and consolations of my youth! + +How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and surmount such wounds? How +did my soul rise again out of those sepulchres? + +Yea, something invulnerable, unburiable is with me, something that would +rend rocks asunder: it is called MY WILL. Silently doth it proceed, and +unchanged throughout the years. + +Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will; hard of heart is its +nature and invulnerable. + +Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever livest thou there, and art like +thyself, thou most patient one! Ever hast thou burst all shackles of the +tomb! + +In thee still liveth also the unrealisedness of my youth; and as life +and youth sittest thou here hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves. + +Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all graves: Hail to thee, +my Will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections.— + +Thus sang Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXIV. SELF-SURPASSING. + + +“Will to Truth” do ye call it, ye wisest ones, that which impelleth you +and maketh you ardent? + +Will for the thinkableness of all being: thus do _I_ call your will! + +All being would ye MAKE thinkable: for ye doubt with good reason whether +it be already thinkable. + +But it shall accommodate and bend itself to you! So willeth your will. +Smooth shall it become and subject to the spirit, as its mirror and +reflection. + +That is your entire will, ye wisest ones, as a Will to Power; and even +when ye speak of good and evil, and of estimates of value. + +Ye would still create a world before which ye can bow the knee: such is +your ultimate hope and ecstasy. + +The ignorant, to be sure, the people—they are like a river on which a +boat floateth along: and in the boat sit the estimates of value, solemn +and disguised. + +Your will and your valuations have ye put on the river of becoming; it +betrayeth unto me an old Will to Power, what is believed by the people +as good and evil. + +It was ye, ye wisest ones, who put such guests in this boat, and gave +them pomp and proud names—ye and your ruling Will! + +Onward the river now carrieth your boat: it MUST carry it. A small +matter if the rough wave foameth and angrily resisteth its keel! + +It is not the river that is your danger and the end of your good and +evil, ye wisest ones: but that Will itself, the Will to Power—the +unexhausted, procreating life-will. + +But that ye may understand my gospel of good and evil, for that purpose +will I tell you my gospel of life, and of the nature of all living +things. + +The living thing did I follow; I walked in the broadest and narrowest +paths to learn its nature. + +With a hundred-faced mirror did I catch its glance when its mouth was +shut, so that its eye might speak unto me. And its eye spake unto me. + +But wherever I found living things, there heard I also the language of +obedience. All living things are obeying things. + +And this heard I secondly: Whatever cannot obey itself, is commanded. +Such is the nature of living things. + +This, however, is the third thing which I heard—namely, that commanding +is more difficult than obeying. And not only because the commander +beareth the burden of all obeyers, and because this burden readily +crusheth him:— + +An attempt and a risk seemed all commanding unto me; and whenever it +commandeth, the living thing risketh itself thereby. + +Yea, even when it commandeth itself, then also must it atone for its +commanding. Of its own law must it become the judge and avenger and +victim. + +How doth this happen! so did I ask myself. What persuadeth the living +thing to obey, and command, and even be obedient in commanding? + +Hearken now unto my word, ye wisest ones! Test it seriously, whether +I have crept into the heart of life itself, and into the roots of its +heart! + +Wherever I found a living thing, there found I Will to Power; and even +in the will of the servant found I the will to be master. + +That to the stronger the weaker shall serve—thereto persuadeth he his +will who would be master over a still weaker one. That delight alone he +is unwilling to forego. + +And as the lesser surrendereth himself to the greater that he may have +delight and power over the least of all, so doth even the greatest +surrender himself, and staketh—life, for the sake of power. + +It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and danger, and play +dice for death. + +And where there is sacrifice and service and love-glances, there also +is the will to be master. By by-ways doth the weaker then slink into +the fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one—and there stealeth +power. + +And this secret spake Life herself unto me. “Behold,” said she, “I am +that WHICH MUST EVER SURPASS ITSELF. + +To be sure, ye call it will to procreation, or impulse towards a goal, +towards the higher, remoter, more manifold: but all that is one and the +same secret. + +Rather would I succumb than disown this one thing; and verily, where +there is succumbing and leaf-falling, lo, there doth Life sacrifice +itself—for power! + +That I have to be struggle, and becoming, and purpose, and +cross-purpose—ah, he who divineth my will, divineth well also on what +CROOKED paths it hath to tread! + +Whatever I create, and however much I love it,—soon must I be adverse +to it, and to my love: so willeth my will. + +And even thou, discerning one, art only a path and footstep of my will: +verily, my Will to Power walketh even on the feet of thy Will to Truth! + +He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at it the formula: ‘Will to +existence’: that will—doth not exist! + +For what is not, cannot will; that, however, which is in existence—how +could it still strive for existence! + +Only where there is life, is there also will: not, however, Will to +Life, but—so teach I thee—Will to Power! + +Much is reckoned higher than life itself by the living one; but out of +the very reckoning speaketh—the Will to Power!”— + +Thus did Life once teach me: and thereby, ye wisest ones, do I solve you +the riddle of your hearts. + +Verily, I say unto you: good and evil which would be everlasting—it +doth not exist! Of its own accord must it ever surpass itself anew. + +With your values and formulae of good and evil, ye exercise power, +ye valuing ones: and that is your secret love, and the sparkling, +trembling, and overflowing of your souls. + +But a stronger power groweth out of your values, and a new surpassing: +by it breaketh egg and egg-shell. + +And he who hath to be a creator in good and evil—verily, he hath first +to be a destroyer, and break values in pieces. + +Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however, +is the creating good.— + +Let us SPEAK thereof, ye wisest ones, even though it be bad. To be +silent is worse; all suppressed truths become poisonous. + +And let everything break up which—can break up by our truths! Many a +house is still to be built!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXV. THE SUBLIME ONES. + + +Calm is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hideth droll +monsters! + +Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with swimming enigmas and +laughters. + +A sublime one saw I to-day, a solemn one, a penitent of the spirit: Oh, +how my soul laughed at his ugliness! + +With upraised breast, and like those who draw in their breath: thus did +he stand, the sublime one, and in silence: + +O’erhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his hunting, and rich in torn +raiment; many thorns also hung on him—but I saw no rose. + +Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty. Gloomy did this hunter +return from the forest of knowledge. + +From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild +beast gazeth out of his seriousness—an unconquered wild beast! + +As a tiger doth he ever stand, on the point of springing; but I do not +like those strained souls; ungracious is my taste towards all those +self-engrossed ones. + +And ye tell me, friends, that there is to be no dispute about taste and +tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting! + +Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas +for every living thing that would live without dispute about weight and +scales and weigher! + +Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this sublime one, then only +will his beauty begin—and then only will I taste him and find him +savoury. + +And only when he turneth away from himself will he o’erleap his own +shadow—and verily! into HIS sun. + +Far too long did he sit in the shade; the cheeks of the penitent of the +spirit became pale; he almost starved on his expectations. + +Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hideth in his mouth. To be +sure, he now resteth, but he hath not yet taken rest in the sunshine. + +As the ox ought he to do; and his happiness should smell of the earth, +and not of contempt for the earth. + +As a white ox would I like to see him, which, snorting and lowing, +walketh before the ploughshare: and his lowing should also laud all +that is earthly! + +Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand danceth upon it. +O’ershadowed is still the sense of his eye. + +His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscureth the +doer. Not yet hath he overcome his deed. + +To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want to +see also the eye of the angel. + +Also his hero-will hath he still to unlearn: an exalted one shall he +be, and not only a sublime one:—the ether itself should raise him, the +will-less one! + +He hath subdued monsters, he hath solved enigmas. But he should also +redeem his monsters and enigmas; into heavenly children should he +transform them. + +As yet hath his knowledge not learned to smile, and to be without +jealousy; as yet hath his gushing passion not become calm in beauty. + +Verily, not in satiety shall his longing cease and disappear, but in +beauty! Gracefulness belongeth to the munificence of the magnanimous. + +His arm across his head: thus should the hero repose; thus should he +also surmount his repose. + +But precisely to the hero is BEAUTY the hardest thing of all. +Unattainable is beauty by all ardent wills. + +A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the +most here. + +To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the +hardest for all of you, ye sublime ones! + +When power becometh gracious and descendeth into the visible—I call +such condescension, beauty. + +And from no one do I want beauty so much as from thee, thou powerful +one: let thy goodness be thy last self-conquest. + +All evil do I accredit to thee: therefore do I desire of thee the good. + +Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings, who think themselves good +because they have crippled paws! + +The virtue of the pillar shalt thou strive after: more beautiful doth +it ever become, and more graceful—but internally harder and more +sustaining—the higher it riseth. + +Yea, thou sublime one, one day shalt thou also be beautiful, and hold up +the mirror to thine own beauty. + +Then will thy soul thrill with divine desires; and there will be +adoration even in thy vanity! + +For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero hath abandoned it, +then only approacheth it in dreams—the superhero.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXVI. THE LAND OF CULTURE. + + +Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me. + +And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary. + +Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and always faster. Thus did I come +unto you, ye present-day men, and into the land of culture. + +For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily, +with longing in my heart did I come. + +But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed—I had yet to +laugh! Never did mine eye see anything so motley-coloured! + +I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as +well. “Here forsooth, is the home of all the paintpots,”—said I. + +With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs—so sat ye there to mine +astonishment, ye present-day men! + +And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours, +and repeated it! + +Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own +faces! Who could—RECOGNISE you! + +Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters +also pencilled over with new characters—thus have ye concealed +yourselves well from all decipherers! + +And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that ye have +reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps. + +All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all +customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures. + +He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures, +would just have enough left to scare the crows. + +Verily, I myself am the scared crow that once saw you naked, and without +paint; and I flew away when the skeleton ogled at me. + +Rather would I be a day-labourer in the nether-world, and among the +shades of the bygone!—Fatter and fuller than ye, are forsooth the +nether-worldlings! + +This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither endure +you naked nor clothed, ye present-day men! + +All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds +shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your “reality.” + +For thus speak ye: “Real are we wholly, and without faith and +superstition”: thus do ye plume yourselves—alas! even without plumes! + +Indeed, how would ye be ABLE to believe, ye divers-coloured ones!—ye +who are pictures of all that hath ever been believed! + +Perambulating refutations are ye, of belief itself, and a dislocation of +all thought. UNTRUSTWORTHY ONES: thus do _I_ call you, ye real ones! + +All periods prate against one another in your spirits; and the dreams +and pratings of all periods were even realer than your awakeness! + +Unfruitful are ye: THEREFORE do ye lack belief. But he who had to +create, had always his presaging dreams and astral premonitions—and +believed in believing!— + +Half-open doors are ye, at which grave-diggers wait. And this is YOUR +reality: “Everything deserveth to perish.” + +Alas, how ye stand there before me, ye unfruitful ones; how lean your +ribs! And many of you surely have had knowledge thereof. + +Many a one hath said: “There hath surely a God filched something from +me secretly whilst I slept? Verily, enough to make a girl for himself +therefrom! + +“Amazing is the poverty of my ribs!” thus hath spoken many a present-day +man. + +Yea, ye are laughable unto me, ye present-day men! And especially when +ye marvel at yourselves! + +And woe unto me if I could not laugh at your marvelling, and had to +swallow all that is repugnant in your platters! + +As it is, however, I will make lighter of you, since I have to carry +_what is heavy;_ and what matter if beetles and May-bugs also alight on +my load! + +Verily, it shall not on that account become heavier to me! And not from +you, ye present-day men, shall my great weariness arise.— + +Ah, whither shall I now ascend with my longing! From all mountains do I +look out for fatherlands and motherlands. + +But a home have I found nowhere: unsettled am I in all cities, and +decamping at all gates. + +Alien to me, and a mockery, are the present-day men, to whom of late my +heart impelled me; and exiled am I from fatherlands and motherlands. + +Thus do I love only my CHILDREN’S LAND, the undiscovered in the remotest +sea: for it do I bid my sails search and search. + +Unto my children will I make amends for being the child of my fathers: +and unto all the future—for THIS present-day!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXVII. IMMACULATE PERCEPTION. + + +When yester-eve the moon arose, then did I fancy it about to bear a sun: +so broad and teeming did it lie on the horizon. + +But it was a liar with its pregnancy; and sooner will I believe in the +man in the moon than in the woman. + +To be sure, little of a man is he also, that timid night-reveller. +Verily, with a bad conscience doth he stalk over the roofs. + +For he is covetous and jealous, the monk in the moon; covetous of the +earth, and all the joys of lovers. + +Nay, I like him not, that tom-cat on the roofs! Hateful unto me are all +that slink around half-closed windows! + +Piously and silently doth he stalk along on the star-carpets:—but I +like no light-treading human feet, on which not even a spur jingleth. + +Every honest one’s step speaketh; the cat however, stealeth along over +the ground. Lo! cat-like doth the moon come along, and dishonestly.— + +This parable speak I unto you sentimental dissemblers, unto you, the +“pure discerners!” You do _I_ call—covetous ones! + +Also ye love the earth, and the earthly: I have divined you well!—but +shame is in your love, and a bad conscience—ye are like the moon! + +To despise the earthly hath your spirit been persuaded, but not your +bowels: these, however, are the strongest in you! + +And now is your spirit ashamed to be at the service of your bowels, and +goeth by-ways and lying ways to escape its own shame. + +“That would be the highest thing for me”—so saith your lying spirit +unto itself—“to gaze upon life without desire, and not like the dog, +with hanging-out tongue: + +To be happy in gazing: with dead will, free from the grip and greed +of selfishness—cold and ashy-grey all over, but with intoxicated +moon-eyes! + +That would be the dearest thing to me”—thus doth the seduced one seduce +himself,—“to love the earth as the moon loveth it, and with the eye +only to feel its beauty. + +And this do I call IMMACULATE perception of all things: to want nothing +else from them, but to be allowed to lie before them as a mirror with a +hundred facets.”— + +Oh, ye sentimental dissemblers, ye covetous ones! Ye lack innocence in +your desire: and now do ye defame desiring on that account! + +Verily, not as creators, as procreators, or as jubilators do ye love the +earth! + +Where is innocence? Where there is will to procreation. And he who +seeketh to create beyond himself, hath for me the purest will. + +Where is beauty? Where I MUST WILL with my whole Will; where I will love +and perish, that an image may not remain merely an image. + +Loving and perishing: these have rhymed from eternity. Will to love: +that is to be ready also for death. Thus do I speak unto you cowards! + +But now doth your emasculated ogling profess to be “contemplation!” + And that which can be examined with cowardly eyes is to be christened +“beautiful!” Oh, ye violators of noble names! + +But it shall be your curse, ye immaculate ones, ye pure discerners, that +ye shall never bring forth, even though ye lie broad and teeming on the +horizon! + +Verily, ye fill your mouth with noble words: and we are to believe that +your heart overfloweth, ye cozeners? + +But MY words are poor, contemptible, stammering words: gladly do I pick +up what falleth from the table at your repasts. + +Yet still can I say therewith the truth—to dissemblers! Yea, my +fish-bones, shells, and prickly leaves shall—tickle the noses of +dissemblers! + +Bad air is always about you and your repasts: your lascivious thoughts, +your lies, and secrets are indeed in the air! + +Dare only to believe in yourselves—in yourselves and in your inward +parts! He who doth not believe in himself always lieth. + +A God’s mask have ye hung in front of you, ye “pure ones”: into a God’s +mask hath your execrable coiling snake crawled. + +Verily ye deceive, ye “contemplative ones!” Even Zarathustra was once +the dupe of your godlike exterior; he did not divine the serpent’s coil +with which it was stuffed. + +A God’s soul, I once thought I saw playing in your games, ye pure +discerners! No better arts did I once dream of than your arts! + +Serpents’ filth and evil odour, the distance concealed from me: and that +a lizard’s craft prowled thereabouts lasciviously. + +But I came NIGH unto you: then came to me the day,—and now cometh it to +you,—at an end is the moon’s love affair! + +See there! Surprised and pale doth it stand—before the rosy dawn! + +For already she cometh, the glowing one,—HER love to the earth cometh! +Innocence and creative desire, is all solar love! + +See there, how she cometh impatiently over the sea! Do ye not feel the +thirst and the hot breath of her love? + +At the sea would she suck, and drink its depths to her height: now +riseth the desire of the sea with its thousand breasts. + +Kissed and sucked WOULD it be by the thirst of the sun; vapour WOULD it +become, and height, and path of light, and light itself! + +Verily, like the sun do I love life, and all deep seas. + +And this meaneth TO ME knowledge: all that is deep shall ascend—to my +height!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXVIII. SCHOLARS. + + +When I lay asleep, then did a sheep eat at the ivy-wreath on my +head,—it ate, and said thereby: “Zarathustra is no longer a scholar.” + +It said this, and went away clumsily and proudly. A child told it to me. + +I like to lie here where the children play, beside the ruined wall, +among thistles and red poppies. + +A scholar am I still to the children, and also to the thistles and red +poppies. Innocent are they, even in their wickedness. + +But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar: so willeth my lot—blessings +upon it! + +For this is the truth: I have departed from the house of the scholars, +and the door have I also slammed behind me. + +Too long did my soul sit hungry at their table: not like them have I got +the knack of investigating, as the knack of nut-cracking. + +Freedom do I love, and the air over fresh soil; rather would I sleep on +ox-skins than on their honours and dignities. + +I am too hot and scorched with mine own thought: often is it ready to +take away my breath. Then have I to go into the open air, and away from +all dusty rooms. + +But they sit cool in the cool shade: they want in everything to be +merely spectators, and they avoid sitting where the sun burneth on the +steps. + +Like those who stand in the street and gape at the passers-by: thus do +they also wait, and gape at the thoughts which others have thought. + +Should one lay hold of them, then do they raise a dust like flour-sacks, +and involuntarily: but who would divine that their dust came from corn, +and from the yellow delight of the summer fields? + +When they give themselves out as wise, then do their petty sayings and +truths chill me: in their wisdom there is often an odour as if it came +from the swamp; and verily, I have even heard the frog croak in it! + +Clever are they—they have dexterous fingers: what doth MY simplicity +pretend to beside their multiplicity! All threading and knitting and +weaving do their fingers understand: thus do they make the hose of the +spirit! + +Good clockworks are they: only be careful to wind them up properly! +Then do they indicate the hour without mistake, and make a modest noise +thereby. + +Like millstones do they work, and like pestles: throw only seed-corn +unto them!—they know well how to grind corn small, and make white dust +out of it. + +They keep a sharp eye on one another, and do not trust each other the +best. Ingenious in little artifices, they wait for those whose knowledge +walketh on lame feet,—like spiders do they wait. + +I saw them always prepare their poison with precaution; and always did +they put glass gloves on their fingers in doing so. + +They also know how to play with false dice; and so eagerly did I find +them playing, that they perspired thereby. + +We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to +my taste than their falsehoods and false dice. + +And when I lived with them, then did I live above them. Therefore did +they take a dislike to me. + +They want to hear nothing of any one walking above their heads; and so +they put wood and earth and rubbish betwixt me and their heads. + +Thus did they deafen the sound of my tread: and least have I hitherto +been heard by the most learned. + +All mankind’s faults and weaknesses did they put betwixt themselves and +me:—they call it “false ceiling” in their houses. + +But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts ABOVE their heads; and even +should I walk on mine own errors, still would I be above them and their +heads. + +For men are NOT equal: so speaketh justice. And what I will, THEY may +not will!— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XXXIX. POETS. + + +“Since I have known the body better”—said Zarathustra to one of his +disciples—“the spirit hath only been to me symbolically spirit; and all +the ‘imperishable’—that is also but a simile.” + +“So have I heard thee say once before,” answered the disciple, “and then +thou addedst: ‘But the poets lie too much.’ Why didst thou say that the +poets lie too much?” + +“Why?” said Zarathustra. “Thou askest why? I do not belong to those who +may be asked after their Why. + +Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced the +reasons for mine opinions. + +Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my +reasons with me? + +It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a +bird flieth away. + +And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which +is alien to me, and trembleth when I lay my hand upon it. + +But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too +much?—But Zarathustra also is a poet. + +Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it?” + +The disciple answered: “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook +his head and smiled.— + +Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself. + +But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lie +too much: he was right—WE do lie too much. + +We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie. + +And which of us poets hath not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous +hotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing hath +there been done. + +And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with +the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women! + +And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one +another in the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us. + +And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which CHOKETH +UP for those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in +their “wisdom.” + +This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricketh up his ears +when lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learneth something of the +things that are betwixt heaven and earth. + +And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always +think that nature herself is in love with them: + +And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and +amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride themselves, before +all mortals! + +Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the +poets have dreamed! + +And especially ABOVE the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations, +poet-sophistications! + +Verily, ever are we drawn aloft—that is, to the realm of the clouds: +on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them Gods and +Supermen:— + +Are not they light enough for those chairs!—all these Gods and +Supermen?— + +Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual! +Ah, how I am weary of the poets! + +When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And +Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if +it gazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath.— + +I am of to-day and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in me +that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter. + +I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are +they all unto me, and shallow seas. + +They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling +did not reach to the bottom. + +Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these +have as yet been their best contemplation. + +Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the +jingle-jangling of their harps; what have they known hitherto of the +fervour of tones!— + +They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that +it may seem deep. + +And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries +and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!— + +Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish; +but always did I draw up the head of some ancient God. + +Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may +well originate from the sea. + +Certainly, one findeth pearls in them: thereby they are the more like +hard molluscs. And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt +slime. + +They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the +peacock of peacocks? + +Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it spread out its tail; +never doth it tire of its lace-fan of silver and silk. + +Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh to the sand with its +soul, nigher still to the thicket, nighest, however, to the swamp. + +What is beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speak +unto the poets. + +Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of +vanity! + +Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet—should they even be +buffaloes!— + +But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it +will become weary of itself. + +Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards +themselves. + +Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the +poets.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XL. GREAT EVENTS. + + +There is an isle in the sea—not far from the Happy Isles of +Zarathustra—on which a volcano ever smoketh; of which isle the people, +and especially the old women amongst them, say that it is placed as a +rock before the gate of the nether-world; but that through the volcano +itself the narrow way leadeth downwards which conducteth to this gate. + +Now about the time that Zarathustra sojourned on the Happy Isles, it +happened that a ship anchored at the isle on which standeth the smoking +mountain, and the crew went ashore to shoot rabbits. About the noontide +hour, however, when the captain and his men were together again, they +saw suddenly a man coming towards them through the air, and a voice said +distinctly: “It is time! It is the highest time!” But when the figure +was nearest to them (it flew past quickly, however, like a shadow, in +the direction of the volcano), then did they recognise with the greatest +surprise that it was Zarathustra; for they had all seen him before +except the captain himself, and they loved him as the people love: in +such wise that love and awe were combined in equal degree. + +“Behold!” said the old helmsman, “there goeth Zarathustra to hell!” + +About the same time that these sailors landed on the fire-isle, there +was a rumour that Zarathustra had disappeared; and when his friends were +asked about it, they said that he had gone on board a ship by night, +without saying whither he was going. + +Thus there arose some uneasiness. After three days, however, there came +the story of the ship’s crew in addition to this uneasiness—and +then did all the people say that the devil had taken Zarathustra. His +disciples laughed, sure enough, at this talk; and one of them said even: +“Sooner would I believe that Zarathustra hath taken the devil.” But at +the bottom of their hearts they were all full of anxiety and longing: so +their joy was great when on the fifth day Zarathustra appeared amongst +them. + +And this is the account of Zarathustra’s interview with the fire-dog: + +The earth, said he, hath a skin; and this skin hath diseases. One of +these diseases, for example, is called “man.” + +And another of these diseases is called “the fire-dog”: concerning HIM +men have greatly deceived themselves, and let themselves be deceived. + +To fathom this mystery did I go o’er the sea; and I have seen the truth +naked, verily! barefooted up to the neck. + +Now do I know how it is concerning the fire-dog; and likewise concerning +all the spouting and subversive devils, of which not only old women are +afraid. + +“Up with thee, fire-dog, out of thy depth!” cried I, “and confess how +deep that depth is! Whence cometh that which thou snortest up? + +Thou drinkest copiously at the sea: that doth thine embittered eloquence +betray! In sooth, for a dog of the depth, thou takest thy nourishment +too much from the surface! + +At the most, I regard thee as the ventriloquist of the earth: and ever, +when I have heard subversive and spouting devils speak, I have found +them like thee: embittered, mendacious, and shallow. + +Ye understand how to roar and obscure with ashes! Ye are the best +braggarts, and have sufficiently learned the art of making dregs boil. + +Where ye are, there must always be dregs at hand, and much that is +spongy, hollow, and compressed: it wanteth to have freedom. + +‘Freedom’ ye all roar most eagerly: but I have unlearned the belief in +‘great events,’ when there is much roaring and smoke about them. + +And believe me, friend Hullabaloo! The greatest events—are not our +noisiest, but our stillest hours. + +Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the inventors of new +values, doth the world revolve; INAUDIBLY it revolveth. + +And just own to it! Little had ever taken place when thy noise and smoke +passed away. What, if a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in the +mud! + +And this do I say also to the o’erthrowers of statues: It is certainly +the greatest folly to throw salt into the sea, and statues into the mud. + +In the mud of your contempt lay the statue: but it is just its law, that +out of contempt, its life and living beauty grow again! + +With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing by its suffering; and +verily! it will yet thank you for o’erthrowing it, ye subverters! + +This counsel, however, do I counsel to kings and churches, and to all +that is weak with age or virtue—let yourselves be o’erthrown! That ye +may again come to life, and that virtue—may come to you!—” + +Thus spake I before the fire-dog: then did he interrupt me sullenly, and +asked: “Church? What is that?” + +“Church?” answered I, “that is a kind of state, and indeed the most +mendacious. But remain quiet, thou dissembling dog! Thou surely knowest +thine own species best! + +Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog; like thee doth it like +to speak with smoke and roaring—to make believe, like thee, that it +speaketh out of the heart of things. + +For it seeketh by all means to be the most important creature on earth, +the state; and people think it so.” + +When I had said this, the fire-dog acted as if mad with envy. “What!” + cried he, “the most important creature on earth? And people think it +so?” And so much vapour and terrible voices came out of his throat, that +I thought he would choke with vexation and envy. + +At last he became calmer and his panting subsided; as soon, however, as +he was quiet, I said laughingly: + +“Thou art angry, fire-dog: so I am in the right about thee! + +And that I may also maintain the right, hear the story of another +fire-dog; he speaketh actually out of the heart of the earth. + +Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain: so doth his heart desire. +What are ashes and smoke and hot dregs to him! + +Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud; adverse is he to thy +gargling and spewing and grips in the bowels! + +The gold, however, and the laughter—these doth he take out of the heart +of the earth: for, that thou mayst know it,—THE HEART OF THE EARTH IS +OF GOLD.” + +When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer endure to listen to me. +Abashed did he draw in his tail, said “bow-wow!” in a cowed voice, and +crept down into his cave.— + +Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however, hardly listened to him: +so great was their eagerness to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, +and the flying man. + +“What am I to think of it!” said Zarathustra. “Am I indeed a ghost? + +But it may have been my shadow. Ye have surely heard something of the +Wanderer and his Shadow? + +One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a tighter hold of it; +otherwise it will spoil my reputation.” + +And once more Zarathustra shook his head and wondered. “What am I to +think of it!” said he once more. + +“Why did the ghost cry: ‘It is time! It is the highest time!’ + +_For what_ is it then—the highest time?”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XLI. THE SOOTHSAYER. + + +“—And I saw a great sadness come over mankind. The best turned weary of +their works. + +A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: ‘All is empty, all is alike, +all hath been!’ + +And from all hills there re-echoed: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all +hath been!’ + +To be sure we have harvested: but why have all our fruits become rotten +and brown? What was it fell last night from the evil moon? + +In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye +hath singed yellow our fields and hearts. + +Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust +like ashes:—yea, the fire itself have we made aweary. + +All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded. All the +ground trieth to gape, but the depth will not swallow! + +‘Alas! where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned?’ so +soundeth our plaint—across shallow swamps. + +Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake +and live on—in sepulchres.” + +Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak; and the foreboding touched +his heart and transformed him. Sorrowfully did he go about and wearily; +and he became like unto those of whom the soothsayer had spoken.— + +Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while, and there cometh the +long twilight. Alas, how shall I preserve my light through it! + +That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness! To remoter worlds shall +it be a light, and also to remotest nights! + +Thus did Zarathustra go about grieved in his heart, and for three days +he did not take any meat or drink: he had no rest, and lost his speech. +At last it came to pass that he fell into a deep sleep. His disciples, +however, sat around him in long night-watches, and waited anxiously to +see if he would awake, and speak again, and recover from his affliction. + +And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake when he awoke; his +voice, however, came unto his disciples as from afar: + +Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my friends, and help me to +divine its meaning! + +A riddle is it still unto me, this dream; the meaning is hidden in it +and encaged, and doth not yet fly above it on free pinions. + +All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-watchman and +grave-guardian had I become, aloft, in the lone mountain-fortress of +Death. + +There did I guard his coffins: full stood the musty vaults of those +trophies of victory. Out of glass coffins did vanquished life gaze upon +me. + +The odour of dust-covered eternities did I breathe: sultry and +dust-covered lay my soul. And who could have aired his soul there! + +Brightness of midnight was ever around me; lonesomeness cowered beside +her; and as a third, death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female +friends. + +Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to open with +them the most creaking of all gates. + +Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound through the long corridors +when the leaves of the gate opened: ungraciously did this bird cry, +unwillingly was it awakened. + +But more frightful even, and more heart-strangling was it, when it again +became silent and still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant +silence. + +Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time there still was: what +do I know thereof! But at last there happened that which awoke me. + +Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like thunders, thrice did the +vaults resound and howl again: then did I go to the gate. + +Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who +carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? + +And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself. But +not a finger’s-breadth was it yet open: + +Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart: whistling, whizzing, and +piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin. + +And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing the coffin burst up, and +spouted out a thousand peals of laughter. + +And a thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and +child-sized butterflies laughed and mocked, and roared at me. + +Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated me. And I cried with +horror as I ne’er cried before. + +But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came to myself.— + +Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then was silent: for as yet +he knew not the interpretation thereof. But the disciple whom he loved +most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra’s hand, and said: + +“Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream, O Zarathustra! + +Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill whistling, which bursteth open +the gates of the fortress of Death? + +Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued malices and +angel-caricatures of life? + +Verily, like a thousand peals of children’s laughter cometh +Zarathustra into all sepulchres, laughing at those night-watchmen and +grave-guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister keys. + +With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and prostrate them: fainting and +recovering will demonstrate thy power over them. + +And when the long twilight cometh and the mortal weariness, even then +wilt thou not disappear from our firmament, thou advocate of life! + +New stars hast thou made us see, and new nocturnal glories: verily, +laughter itself hast thou spread out over us like a many-hued canopy. + +Now will children’s laughter ever from coffins flow; now will a strong +wind ever come victoriously unto all mortal weariness: of this thou art +thyself the pledge and the prophet! + +Verily, THEY THEMSELVES DIDST THOU DREAM, thine enemies: that was thy +sorest dream. + +But as thou awokest from them and camest to thyself, so shall they +awaken from themselves—and come unto thee!” + +Thus spake the disciple; and all the others then thronged around +Zarathustra, grasped him by the hands, and tried to persuade him to +leave his bed and his sadness, and return unto them. Zarathustra, +however, sat upright on his couch, with an absent look. Like one +returning from long foreign sojourn did he look on his disciples, and +examined their features; but still he knew them not. When, however, they +raised him, and set him upon his feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye +changed; he understood everything that had happened, stroked his beard, +and said with a strong voice: + +“Well! this hath just its time; but see to it, my disciples, that we +have a good repast; and without delay! Thus do I mean to make amends for +bad dreams! + +The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink at my side: and verily, I +will yet show him a sea in which he can drown himself!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long into the face of the +disciple who had been the dream-interpreter, and shook his head.— + + + + +XLII. REDEMPTION. + + +When Zarathustra went one day over the great bridge, then did the +cripples and beggars surround him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him: + +“Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn from thee, and acquire faith +in thy teaching: but for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is +still needful—thou must first of all convince us cripples! Here hast +thou now a fine selection, and verily, an opportunity with more than one +forelock! The blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run; and from +him who hath too much behind, couldst thou well, also, take away a +little;—that, I think, would be the right method to make the cripples +believe in Zarathustra!” + +Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him who so spake: When one +taketh his hump from the hunchback, then doth one take from him his +spirit—so do the people teach. And when one giveth the blind man eyes, +then doth he see too many bad things on the earth: so that he curseth +him who healed him. He, however, who maketh the lame man run, inflicteth +upon him the greatest injury; for hardly can he run, when his vices +run away with him—so do the people teach concerning cripples. And why +should not Zarathustra also learn from the people, when the people learn +from Zarathustra? + +It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since I have been amongst +men, to see one person lacking an eye, another an ear, and a third a +leg, and that others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the head. + +I see and have seen worse things, and divers things so hideous, that I +should neither like to speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about +some of them: namely, men who lack everything, except that they have +too much of one thing—men who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big +mouth, or a big belly, or something else big,—reversed cripples, I call +such men. + +And when I came out of my solitude, and for the first time passed over +this bridge, then I could not trust mine eyes, but looked again and +again, and said at last: “That is an ear! An ear as big as a man!” I +looked still more attentively—and actually there did move under the ear +something that was pitiably small and poor and slim. And in truth this +immense ear was perched on a small thin stalk—the stalk, however, was a +man! A person putting a glass to his eyes, could even recognise further +a small envious countenance, and also that a bloated soullet dangled at +the stalk. The people told me, however, that the big ear was not only a +man, but a great man, a genius. But I never believed in the people when +they spake of great men—and I hold to my belief that it was a reversed +cripple, who had too little of everything, and too much of one thing. + +When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the hunchback, and unto those of +whom the hunchback was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn to +his disciples in profound dejection, and said: + +Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and +limbs of human beings! + +This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and +scattered about, as on a battle- and butcher-ground. + +And when mine eye fleeth from the present to the bygone, it findeth ever +the same: fragments and limbs and fearful chances—but no men! + +The present and the bygone upon earth—ah! my friends—that is MY most +unbearable trouble; and I should not know how to live, if I were not a +seer of what is to come. + +A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and a bridge to the +future—and alas! also as it were a cripple on this bridge: all that is +Zarathustra. + +And ye also asked yourselves often: “Who is Zarathustra to us? What +shall he be called by us?” And like me, did ye give yourselves questions +for answers. + +Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror? Or an inheritor? A +harvest? Or a ploughshare? A physician? Or a healed one? + +Is he a poet? Or a genuine one? An emancipator? Or a subjugator? A good +one? Or an evil one? + +I walk amongst men as the fragments of the future: that future which I +contemplate. + +And it is all my poetisation and aspiration to compose and collect into +unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful chance. + +And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also the composer, +and riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance! + +To redeem what is past, and to transform every “It was” into “Thus would +I have it!”—that only do I call redemption! + +Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer called: thus have I taught +you, my friends! But now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a +prisoner. + +Willing emancipateth: but what is that called which still putteth the +emancipator in chains? + +“It was”: thus is the Will’s teeth-gnashing and lonesomest tribulation +called. Impotent towards what hath been done—it is a malicious +spectator of all that is past. + +Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot break time and time’s +desire—that is the Will’s lonesomest tribulation. + +Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself devise in order to get +free from its tribulation and mock at its prison? + +Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly delivereth itself also the +imprisoned Will. + +That time doth not run backward—that is its animosity: “That which +was”: so is the stone which it cannot roll called. + +And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity and ill-humour, and taketh +revenge on whatever doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour. + +Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a torturer; and on all +that is capable of suffering it taketh revenge, because it cannot go +backward. + +This, yea, this alone is REVENGE itself: the Will’s antipathy to time, +and its “It was.” + +Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto +all humanity, that this folly acquired spirit! + +THE SPIRIT OF REVENGE: my friends, that hath hitherto been man’s best +contemplation; and where there was suffering, it was claimed there was +always penalty. + +“Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a +good conscience. + +And because in the willer himself there is suffering, because he cannot +will backwards—thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be +penalty! + +And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last +madness preached: “Everything perisheth, therefore everything deserveth +to perish!” + +“And this itself is justice, the law of time—that he must devour his +children:” thus did madness preach. + +“Morally are things ordered according to justice and penalty. Oh, where +is there deliverance from the flux of things and from the ‘existence’ of +penalty?” Thus did madness preach. + +“Can there be deliverance when there is eternal justice? Alas, +unrollable is the stone, ‘It was’: eternal must also be all penalties!” + Thus did madness preach. + +“No deed can be annihilated: how could it be undone by the penalty! +This, this is what is eternal in the ‘existence’ of penalty, that +existence also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt! + +Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing become +non-Willing—:” but ye know, my brethren, this fabulous song of madness! + +Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: “The +Will is a creator.” + +All “It was” is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance—until the +creating Will saith thereto: “But thus would I have it.”— + +Until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus do I will it! Thus +shall I will it!” + +But did it ever speak thus? And when doth this take place? Hath the Will +been unharnessed from its own folly? + +Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? Hath it +unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing? + +And who hath taught it reconciliation with time, and something higher +than all reconciliation? + +Something higher than all reconciliation must the Will will which is the +Will to Power—: but how doth that take place? Who hath taught it also +to will backwards? + +—But at this point in his discourse it chanced that Zarathustra +suddenly paused, and looked like a person in the greatest alarm. With +terror in his eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances pierced as +with arrows their thoughts and arrear-thoughts. But after a brief space +he again laughed, and said soothedly: + +“It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult— +especially for a babbler.”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the +conversation and had covered his face during the time; but when he heard +Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity, and said slowly: + +“But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto us than unto his +disciples?” + +Zarathustra answered: “What is there to be wondered at! With hunchbacks +one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!” + +“Very good,” said the hunchback; “and with pupils one may well tell +tales out of school. + +But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto his pupils—than unto +himself?”— + + + + +XLIII. MANLY PRUDENCE. + + +Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible! + +The declivity, where the gaze shooteth DOWNWARDS, and the hand graspeth +UPWARDS. There doth the heart become giddy through its double will. + +Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart’s double will? + +This, this is MY declivity and my danger, that my gaze shooteth towards +the summit, and my hand would fain clutch and lean—on the depth! + +To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind myself to man, because +I am pulled upwards to the Superman: for thither doth mine other will +tend. + +And THEREFORE do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not: that +my hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness. + +I know not you men: this gloom and consolation is often spread around +me. + +I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wisheth to deceive +me? + +This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so +as not to be on my guard against deceivers. + +Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how could man be an anchor to my +ball! Too easily would I be pulled upwards and away! + +This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight. + +And he who would not languish amongst men, must learn to drink out of +all glasses; and he who would keep clean amongst men, must know how to +wash himself even with dirty water. + +And thus spake I often to myself for consolation: “Courage! Cheer up! +old heart! An unhappiness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as +thy—happiness!” + +This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I am more forbearing to the +VAIN than to the proud. + +Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? Where, however, pride +is wounded, there groweth up something better than pride. + +That life may be fair to behold, its game must be well played; for that +purpose, however, it needeth good actors. + +Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they play, and wish people +to be fond of beholding them—all their spirit is in this wish. + +They represent themselves, they invent themselves; in their +neighbourhood I like to look upon life—it cureth of melancholy. + +Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because they are the physicians +of my melancholy, and keep me attached to man as to a drama. + +And further, who conceiveth the full depth of the modesty of the vain +man! I am favourable to him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty. + +From you would he learn his belief in himself; he feedeth upon your +glances, he eateth praise out of your hands. + +Your lies doth he even believe when you lie favourably about him: for in +its depths sigheth his heart: “What am _I_?” + +And if that be the true virtue which is unconscious of itself—well, the +vain man is unconscious of his modesty!— + +This is, however, my third manly prudence: I am not put out of conceit +with the WICKED by your timorousness. + +I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun hatcheth: tigers and palms +and rattle-snakes. + +Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood of the warm sun, and much +that is marvellous in the wicked. + +In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so very wise, so found I +also human wickedness below the fame of it. + +And oft did I ask with a shake of the head: Why still rattle, ye +rattle-snakes? + +Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And the warmest south is +still undiscovered by man. + +How many things are now called the worst wickedness, which are only +twelve feet broad and three months long! Some day, however, will greater +dragons come into the world. + +For that the Superman may not lack his dragon, the superdragon that +is worthy of him, there must still much warm sun glow on moist virgin +forests! + +Out of your wild cats must tigers have evolved, and out of your +poison-toads, crocodiles: for the good hunter shall have a good hunt! + +And verily, ye good and just! In you there is much to be laughed at, and +especially your fear of what hath hitherto been called “the devil!” + +So alien are ye in your souls to what is great, that to you the Superman +would be FRIGHTFUL in his goodness! + +And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee from the solar-glow of the +wisdom in which the Superman joyfully batheth his nakedness! + +Ye highest men who have come within my ken! this is my doubt of you, and +my secret laughter: I suspect ye would call my Superman—a devil! + +Ah, I became tired of those highest and best ones: from their “height” + did I long to be up, out, and away to the Superman! + +A horror came over me when I saw those best ones naked: then there grew +for me the pinions to soar away into distant futures. + +Into more distant futures, into more southern souths than ever artist +dreamed of: thither, where Gods are ashamed of all clothes! + +But disguised do I want to see YOU, ye neighbours and fellowmen, and +well-attired and vain and estimable, as “the good and just;”— + +And disguised will I myself sit amongst you—that I may MISTAKE you and +myself: for that is my last manly prudence.— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +XLIV. THE STILLEST HOUR. + + +What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye see me troubled, driven +forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go—alas, to go away from YOU! + +Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously +this time doth the bear go back to his cave! + +What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth this?—Ah, mine angry mistress +wisheth it so; she spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to you? + +Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me MY STILLEST HOUR: that is +the name of my terrible mistress. + +And thus did it happen—for everything must I tell you, that your heart +may not harden against the suddenly departing one! + +Do ye know the terror of him who falleth asleep?— + +To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground giveth way under +him, and the dream beginneth. + +This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour did +the ground give way under me: the dream began. + +The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath—never did +I hear such stillness around me, so that my heart was terrified. + +Then was there spoken unto me without voice: “THOU KNOWEST IT, +ZARATHUSTRA?”— + +And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face: +but I was silent. + +Then was there once more spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest it, +Zarathustra, but thou dost not speak it!”— + +And at last I answered, like one defiant: “Yea, I know it, but I will +not speak it!” + +Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou WILT not, +Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance!”— + +And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: “Ah, I would indeed, but +how can I do it! Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my power!” + +Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about +thyself, Zarathustra! Speak thy word, and succumb!” + +And I answered: “Ah, is it MY word? Who am _I_? I await the worthier +one; I am not worthy even to succumb by it.” + +Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about +thyself? Thou art not yet humble enough for me. Humility hath the +hardest skin.”— + +And I answered: “What hath not the skin of my humility endured! At the +foot of my height do I dwell: how high are my summits, no one hath yet +told me. But well do I know my valleys.” + +Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “O Zarathustra, he +who hath to remove mountains removeth also valleys and plains.”— + +And I answered: “As yet hath my word not removed mountains, and what I +have spoken hath not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but not yet +have I attained unto them.” + +Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What knowest thou +THEREOF! The dew falleth on the grass when the night is most silent.”— + +And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in mine own +path; and certainly did my feet then tremble. + +And thus did they speak unto me: Thou forgottest the path before, now +dost thou also forget how to walk!” + +Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about +their mockery! Thou art one who hast unlearned to obey: now shalt thou +command! + +Knowest thou not who is most needed by all? He who commandeth great +things. + +To execute great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to +command great things. + +This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou hast the power, and thou +wilt not rule.”— + +And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice for all commanding.” + +Then was there again spoken unto me as a whispering: “It is the stillest +words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps +guide the world. + +O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus +wilt thou command, and in commanding go foremost.”— + +And I answered: “I am ashamed.” + +Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou must yet become +a child, and be without shame. + +The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast thou become young: but +he who would become a child must surmount even his youth.”— + +And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, however, did I say +what I had said at first. “I will not.” + +Then did a laughing take place all around me. Alas, how that laughing +lacerated my bowels and cut into my heart! + +And there was spoken unto me for the last time: “O Zarathustra, thy +fruits are ripe, but thou art not ripe for thy fruits! + +So must thou go again into solitude: for thou shalt yet become +mellow.”— + +And again was there a laughing, and it fled: then did it become still +around me, as with a double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground, +and the sweat flowed from my limbs. + +—Now have ye heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude. +Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends. + +But even this have ye heard from me, WHO is still the most reserved of +men—and will be so! + +Ah, my friends! I should have something more to say unto you! I should +have something more to give unto you! Why do I not give it? Am I then a +niggard?— + +When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these words, the violence of his +pain, and a sense of the nearness of his departure from his friends came +over him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew how to console him. In +the night, however, he went away alone and left his friends. + + + + + +THIRD PART. + + +“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.” + + + + +XLV. 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. + + + + +XLVI. 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 arch-enemy. + +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 have 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. + + + + +XLVII. 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 +subtlely 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 alive 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 thee 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.” + + + + +XLVIII. 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 steam 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. + + + + +XLIX. 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. + + + + +L. 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 whitehead,— + +—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 learnt 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. + + + + +LI. 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 pernicious:— + +—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. + + + + +LII. 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 learnt +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 yester-night 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 +yester-night 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. + + + + +LIII. 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 being’s 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 +to-day, outchamped and outchewed, from the mouths of the men of to-day. + +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. + + + + +LIV. THE THREE EVIL THINGS. + + +1. + +In my dream, in my last morning-dream, I stood to-day 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 nut-crackers: 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 to-day:— + +—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 to-day’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 for ever 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 NIGH, THE GREAT NOONTIDE!” + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +LV. 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 sick 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 to-day and to-morrow 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 learnt, 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 lickspittles; 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 shipwrecked 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. + + + + +LVI. 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 wryheads and guyheads 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 thrash 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 “thrasheth straw,” why should he be allowed to rail at +thrashing! 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 in 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 to-day—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 to-day, 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 overreaching! 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 sea-sickness. + +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 noontide: 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. + + + + +LVII. 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. + + + + +LVIII. THE GREAT LONGING. + + +O my soul, I have taught thee to say “to-day” 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. + + + + +LIX. 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, inwindress, 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 aweary? 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!_ + + + + +LX. THE SEVEN SEALS. + +(OR THE YE-A 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 creative +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: + +—For 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, every body 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! + + + + +FOURTH AND LAST PART. + + +Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the +pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the +follies of the pitiful? + +Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their +pity! + +Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: “Even God hath his hell: +it is his love for man.” + +And lately did I hear him say these words: “God is dead: of his pity for +man hath God died.”—ZARATHUSTRA, II., “The Pitiful.” + + + + +LXI. THE HONEY SACRIFICE. + + +—And again passed moons and years over Zarathustra’s soul, and he +heeded it not; his hair, however, became white. One day when he sat on +a stone in front of his cave, and gazed calmly into the distance—one +there gazeth out on the sea, and away beyond sinuous abysses,—then went +his animals thoughtfully round about him, and at last set themselves in +front of him. + +“O Zarathustra,” said they, “gazest thou out perhaps for thy +happiness?”—“Of what account is my happiness!” answered he, “I have +long ceased to strive any more for happiness, I strive for my work.”—“O +Zarathustra,” said the animals once more, “that sayest thou as one +who hath overmuch of good things. Liest thou not in a sky-blue lake of +happiness?”—“Ye wags,” answered Zarathustra, and smiled, “how well did +ye choose the simile! But ye know also that my happiness is heavy, and +not like a fluid wave of water: it presseth me and will not leave me, +and is like molten pitch.”— + +Then went his animals again thoughtfully around him, and placed +themselves once more in front of him. “O Zarathustra,” said they, “it is +consequently FOR THAT REASON that thou thyself always becometh yellower +and darker, although thy hair looketh white and flaxen? Lo, thou sittest +in thy pitch!”—“What do ye say, mine animals?” said Zarathustra, +laughing; “verily I reviled when I spake of pitch. As it happeneth with +me, so is it with all fruits that turn ripe. It is the HONEY in my veins +that maketh my blood thicker, and also my soul stiller.”—“So will it +be, O Zarathustra,” answered his animals, and pressed up to him; “but +wilt thou not to-day ascend a high mountain? The air is pure, and to-day +one seeth more of the world than ever.”—“Yea, mine animals,” answered +he, “ye counsel admirably and according to my heart: I will to-day +ascend a high mountain! But see that honey is there ready to hand, +yellow, white, good, ice-cool, golden-comb-honey. For know that when +aloft I will make the honey sacrifice.”— + +When Zarathustra, however, was aloft on the summit, he sent his animals +home that had accompanied him, and found that he was now alone:—then he +laughed from the bottom of his heart, looked around him, and spake thus: + +That I spake of sacrifices and honey-sacrifices, it was merely a ruse +in talking and verily, a useful folly! Here aloft can I now speak freer +than in front of mountain-caves and anchorites’ domestic animals. + +What to sacrifice! I squander what is given me, a squanderer with a +thousand hands: how could I call that—sacrificing? + +And when I desired honey I only desired bait, and sweet mucus and +mucilage, for which even the mouths of growling bears, and strange, +sulky, evil birds, water: + +—The best bait, as huntsmen and fishermen require it. For if the world +be as a gloomy forest of animals, and a pleasure-ground for all wild +huntsmen, it seemeth to me rather—and preferably—a fathomless, rich +sea; + +—A sea full of many-hued fishes and crabs, for which even the Gods +might long, and might be tempted to become fishers in it, and casters of +nets,—so rich is the world in wonderful things, great and small! + +Especially the human world, the human sea:—towards IT do I now throw +out my golden angle-rod and say: Open up, thou human abyss! + +Open up, and throw unto me thy fish and shining crabs! With my best bait +shall I allure to myself to-day the strangest human fish! + +—My happiness itself do I throw out into all places far and wide ‘twixt +orient, noontide, and occident, to see if many human fish will not learn +to hug and tug at my happiness;— + +Until, biting at my sharp hidden hooks, they have to come up unto MY +height, the motleyest abyss-groundlings, to the wickedest of all fishers +of men. + +For THIS am I from the heart and from the beginning—drawing, +hither-drawing, upward-drawing, upbringing; a drawer, a trainer, a +training-master, who not in vain counselled himself once on a time: +“Become what thou art!” + +Thus may men now come UP to me; for as yet do I await the signs that it +is time for my down-going; as yet do I not myself go down, as I must do, +amongst men. + +Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high mountains, +no impatient one, no patient one; rather one who hath even unlearnt +patience,—because he no longer “suffereth.” + +For my fate giveth me time: it hath forgotten me perhaps? Or doth it sit +behind a big stone and catch flies? + +And verily, I am well disposed to mine eternal fate, because it doth not +hound and hurry me, but leaveth me time for merriment and mischief; so +that I have to-day ascended this high mountain to catch fish. + +Did ever any one catch fish upon high mountains? And though it be a +folly what I here seek and do, it is better so than that down below I +should become solemn with waiting, and green and yellow— + +—A posturing wrath-snorter with waiting, a holy howl-storm from +the mountains, an impatient one that shouteth down into the valleys: +“Hearken, else I will scourge you with the scourge of God!” + +Not that I would have a grudge against such wrathful ones on that +account: they are well enough for laughter to me! Impatient must they +now be, those big alarm-drums, which find a voice now or never! + +Myself, however, and my fate—we do not talk to the Present, neither +do we talk to the Never: for talking we have patience and time and more +than time. For one day must it yet come, and may not pass by. + +What must one day come and may not pass by? Our great Hazar, that is +to say, our great, remote human-kingdom, the Zarathustra-kingdom of a +thousand years— + +How remote may such “remoteness” be? What doth it concern me? But on +that account it is none the less sure unto me—, with both feet stand I +secure on this ground; + +—On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on this highest, hardest, +primary mountain-ridge, unto which all winds come, as unto the +storm-parting, asking Where? and Whence? and Whither? + +Here laugh, laugh, my hearty, healthy wickedness! From high mountains +cast down thy glittering scorn-laughter! Allure for me with thy +glittering the finest human fish! + +And whatever belongeth unto ME in all seas, my in-and-for-me in all +things—fish THAT out for me, bring THAT up to me: for that do I wait, +the wickedest of all fish-catchers. + +Out! out! my fishing-hook! In and down, thou bait of my happiness! Drip +thy sweetest dew, thou honey of my heart! Bite, my fishing-hook, into +the belly of all black affliction! + +Look out, look out, mine eye! Oh, how many seas round about me, what +dawning human futures! And above me—what rosy red stillness! What +unclouded silence! + + + + +LXII. THE CRY OF DISTRESS. + + +The next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone in front of his cave, +whilst his animals roved about in the world outside to bring home new +food,—also new honey: for Zarathustra had spent and wasted the old +honey to the very last particle. When he thus sat, however, with a +stick in his hand, tracing the shadow of his figure on the earth, and +reflecting—verily! not upon himself and his shadow,—all at once he +startled and shrank back: for he saw another shadow beside his own. +And when he hastily looked around and stood up, behold, there stood the +soothsayer beside him, the same whom he had once given to eat and drink +at his table, the proclaimer of the great weariness, who taught: “All is +alike, nothing is worth while, the world is without meaning, knowledge +strangleth.” But his face had changed since then; and when Zarathustra +looked into his eyes, his heart was startled once more: so much evil +announcement and ashy-grey lightnings passed over that countenance. + +The soothsayer, who had perceived what went on in Zarathustra’s soul, +wiped his face with his hand, as if he would wipe out the impression; +the same did also Zarathustra. And when both of them had thus silently +composed and strengthened themselves, they gave each other the hand, as +a token that they wanted once more to recognise each other. + +“Welcome hither,” said Zarathustra, “thou soothsayer of the great +weariness, not in vain shalt thou once have been my messmate and guest. +Eat and drink also with me to-day, and forgive it that a cheerful old +man sitteth with thee at table!”—“A cheerful old man?” answered the +soothsayer, shaking his head, “but whoever thou art, or wouldst be, O +Zarathustra, thou hast been here aloft the longest time,—in a little +while thy bark shall no longer rest on dry land!”—“Do I then rest +on dry land?”—asked Zarathustra, laughing.—“The waves around thy +mountain,” answered the soothsayer, “rise and rise, the waves of great +distress and affliction: they will soon raise thy bark also and carry +thee away.”—Thereupon was Zarathustra silent and wondered.—“Dost thou +still hear nothing?” continued the soothsayer: “doth it not rush and +roar out of the depth?”—Zarathustra was silent once more and listened: +then heard he a long, long cry, which the abysses threw to one another +and passed on; for none of them wished to retain it: so evil did it +sound. + +“Thou ill announcer,” said Zarathustra at last, “that is a cry of +distress, and the cry of a man; it may come perhaps out of a black sea. +But what doth human distress matter to me! My last sin which hath been +reserved for me,—knowest thou what it is called?” + +—“PITY!” answered the soothsayer from an overflowing heart, and raised +both his hands aloft—“O Zarathustra, I have come that I may seduce thee +to thy last sin!”— + +And hardly had those words been uttered when there sounded the cry +once more, and longer and more alarming than before—also much nearer. +“Hearest thou? Hearest thou, O Zarathustra?” called out the soothsayer, +“the cry concerneth thee, it calleth thee: Come, come, come; it is time, +it is the highest time!”— + +Zarathustra was silent thereupon, confused and staggered; at last he +asked, like one who hesitateth in himself: “And who is it that there +calleth me?” + +“But thou knowest it, certainly,” answered the soothsayer warmly, “why +dost thou conceal thyself? It is THE HIGHER MAN that crieth for thee!” + +“The higher man?” cried Zarathustra, horror-stricken: “what wanteth HE? +What wanteth HE? The higher man! What wanteth he here?”—and his skin +covered with perspiration. + +The soothsayer, however, did not heed Zarathustra’s alarm, but listened +and listened in the downward direction. When, however, it had been still +there for a long while, he looked behind, and saw Zarathustra standing +trembling. + +“O Zarathustra,” he began, with sorrowful voice, “thou dost not stand +there like one whose happiness maketh him giddy: thou wilt have to dance +lest thou tumble down! + +But although thou shouldst dance before me, and leap all thy side-leaps, +no one may say unto me: ‘Behold, here danceth the last joyous man!’ + +In vain would any one come to this height who sought HIM here: caves +would he find, indeed, and back-caves, hiding-places for hidden ones; +but not lucky mines, nor treasure-chambers, nor new gold-veins of +happiness. + +Happiness—how indeed could one find happiness among such buried-alive +and solitary ones! Must I yet seek the last happiness on the Happy +Isles, and far away among forgotten seas? + +But all is alike, nothing is worth while, no seeking is of service, +there are no longer any Happy Isles!”— + +Thus sighed the soothsayer; with his last sigh, however, Zarathustra +again became serene and assured, like one who hath come out of a deep +chasm into the light. “Nay! Nay! Three times Nay!” exclaimed he with a +strong voice, and stroked his beard—“THAT do I know better! There are +still Happy Isles! Silence THEREON, thou sighing sorrow-sack! + +Cease to splash THEREON, thou rain-cloud of the forenoon! Do I not +already stand here wet with thy misery, and drenched like a dog? + +Now do I shake myself and run away from thee, that I may again become +dry: thereat mayest thou not wonder! Do I seem to thee discourteous? +Here however is MY court. + +But as regards the higher man: well! I shall seek him at once in those +forests: FROM THENCE came his cry. Perhaps he is there hard beset by an +evil beast. + +He is in MY domain: therein shall he receive no scath! And verily, there +are many evil beasts about me.”— + +With those words Zarathustra turned around to depart. Then said the +soothsayer: “O Zarathustra, thou art a rogue! + +I know it well: thou wouldst fain be rid of me! Rather wouldst thou run +into the forest and lay snares for evil beasts! + +But what good-will it do thee? In the evening wilt thou have me again: +in thine own cave will I sit, patient and heavy like a block—and wait +for thee!” + +“So be it!” shouted back Zarathustra, as he went away: “and what is mine +in my cave belongeth also unto thee, my guest! + +Shouldst thou however find honey therein, well! just lick it up, thou +growling bear, and sweeten thy soul! For in the evening we want both to +be in good spirits; + +—In good spirits and joyful, because this day hath come to an end! And +thou thyself shalt dance to my lays, as my dancing-bear. + +Thou dost not believe this? Thou shakest thy head? Well! Cheer up, old +bear! But I also—am a soothsayer.” + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +LXIII. TALK WITH THE KINGS. + + +1. + +Ere Zarathustra had been an hour on his way in the mountains and +forests, he saw all at once a strange procession. Right on the path +which he was about to descend came two kings walking, bedecked with +crowns and purple girdles, and variegated like flamingoes: they drove +before them a laden ass. “What do these kings want in my domain?” said +Zarathustra in astonishment to his heart, and hid himself hastily behind +a thicket. When however the kings approached to him, he said half-aloud, +like one speaking only to himself: “Strange! Strange! How doth this +harmonise? Two kings do I see—and only one ass!” + +Thereupon the two kings made a halt; they smiled and looked towards the +spot whence the voice proceeded, and afterwards looked into each other’s +faces. “Such things do we also think among ourselves,” said the king on +the right, “but we do not utter them.” + +The king on the left, however, shrugged his shoulders and answered: +“That may perhaps be a goat-herd. Or an anchorite who hath lived too +long among rocks and trees. For no society at all spoileth also good +manners.” + +“Good manners?” replied angrily and bitterly the other king: “what +then do we run out of the way of? Is it not ‘good manners’? Our ‘good +society’? + +Better, verily, to live among anchorites and goatherds, than with +our gilded, false, over-rouged populace—though it call itself ‘good +society.’ + +—Though it call itself ‘nobility.’ But there all is false and foul, +above all the blood—thanks to old evil diseases and worse curers. + +The best and dearest to me at present is still a sound peasant, coarse, +artful, obstinate and enduring: that is at present the noblest type. + +The peasant is at present the best; and the peasant type should be +master! But it is the kingdom of the populace—I no longer allow +anything to be imposed upon me. The populace, however—that meaneth, +hodgepodge. + +Populace-hodgepodge: therein is everything mixed with everything, saint +and swindler, gentleman and Jew, and every beast out of Noah’s ark. + +Good manners! Everything is false and foul with us. No one knoweth any +longer how to reverence: it is THAT precisely that we run away from. +They are fulsome obtrusive dogs; they gild palm-leaves. + +This loathing choketh me, that we kings ourselves have become false, +draped and disguised with the old faded pomp of our ancestors, +show-pieces for the stupidest, the craftiest, and whosoever at present +trafficketh for power. + +We ARE NOT the first men—and have nevertheless to STAND FOR them: of +this imposture have we at last become weary and disgusted. + +From the rabble have we gone out of the way, from all those bawlers and +scribe-blowflies, from the trader-stench, the ambition-fidgeting, the +bad breath—: fie, to live among the rabble; + +—Fie, to stand for the first men among the rabble! Ah, loathing! +Loathing! Loathing! What doth it now matter about us kings!”— + +“Thine old sickness seizeth thee,” said here the king on the left, “thy +loathing seizeth thee, my poor brother. Thou knowest, however, that some +one heareth us.” + +Immediately thereupon, Zarathustra, who had opened ears and eyes to this +talk, rose from his hiding-place, advanced towards the kings, and thus +began: + +“He who hearkeneth unto you, he who gladly hearkeneth unto you, is +called Zarathustra. + +I am Zarathustra who once said: ‘What doth it now matter about kings!’ +Forgive me; I rejoiced when ye said to each other: ‘What doth it matter +about us kings!’ + +Here, however, is MY domain and jurisdiction: what may ye be seeking in +my domain? Perhaps, however, ye have FOUND on your way what _I_ seek: +namely, the higher man.” + +When the kings heard this, they beat upon their breasts and said with +one voice: “We are recognised! + +With the sword of thine utterance severest thou the thickest darkness of +our hearts. Thou hast discovered our distress; for lo! we are on our way +to find the higher man— + +—The man that is higher than we, although we are kings. To him do we +convey this ass. For the highest man shall also be the highest lord on +earth. + +There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny, than when the mighty +of the earth are not also the first men. Then everything becometh false +and distorted and monstrous. + +And when they are even the last men, and more beast than man, then +riseth and riseth the populace in honour, and at last saith even the +populace-virtue: ‘Lo, I alone am virtue!’”— + +What have I just heard? answered Zarathustra. What wisdom in kings! I +am enchanted, and verily, I have already promptings to make a rhyme +thereon:— + +—Even if it should happen to be a rhyme not suited for every one’s +ears. I unlearned long ago to have consideration for long ears. Well +then! Well now! + +(Here, however, it happened that the ass also found utterance: it said +distinctly and with malevolence, Y-E-A.) + +‘Twas once—methinks year one of our blessed Lord,—Drunk without wine, +the Sybil thus deplored:—“How ill things go! Decline! Decline! Ne’er +sank the world so low! Rome now hath turned harlot and harlot-stew, +Rome’s Caesar a beast, and God—hath turned Jew!” + +2. + +With those rhymes of Zarathustra the kings were delighted; the king on +the right, however, said: “O Zarathustra, how well it was that we set +out to see thee! + +For thine enemies showed us thy likeness in their mirror: there lookedst +thou with the grimace of a devil, and sneeringly: so that we were afraid +of thee. + +But what good did it do! Always didst thou prick us anew in heart and +ear with thy sayings. Then did we say at last: What doth it matter how +he look! + +We must HEAR him; him who teacheth: ‘Ye shall love peace as a means to +new wars, and the short peace more than the long!’ + +No one ever spake such warlike words: ‘What is good? To be brave is +good. It is the good war that halloweth every cause.’ + +O Zarathustra, our fathers’ blood stirred in our veins at such words: it +was like the voice of spring to old wine-casks. + +When the swords ran among one another like red-spotted serpents, then +did our fathers become fond of life; the sun of every peace seemed to +them languid and lukewarm, the long peace, however, made them ashamed. + +How they sighed, our fathers, when they saw on the wall brightly +furbished, dried-up swords! Like those they thirsted for war. For a +sword thirsteth to drink blood, and sparkleth with desire.”— + +—When the kings thus discoursed and talked eagerly of the happiness of +their fathers, there came upon Zarathustra no little desire to mock at +their eagerness: for evidently they were very peaceable kings whom he +saw before him, kings with old and refined features. But he restrained +himself. “Well!” said he, “thither leadeth the way, there lieth the +cave of Zarathustra; and this day is to have a long evening! At present, +however, a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from you. + +It will honour my cave if kings want to sit and wait in it: but, to be +sure, ye will have to wait long! + +Well! What of that! Where doth one at present learn better to wait +than at courts? And the whole virtue of kings that hath remained unto +them—is it not called to-day: ABILITY to wait?” + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +LXIV. THE LEECH. + + +And Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further and lower down, through +forests and past moory bottoms; as it happeneth, however, to every one +who meditateth upon hard matters, he trod thereby unawares upon a man. +And lo, there spurted into his face all at once a cry of pain, and two +curses and twenty bad invectives, so that in his fright he raised his +stick and also struck the trodden one. Immediately afterwards, however, +he regained his composure, and his heart laughed at the folly he had +just committed. + +“Pardon me,” said he to the trodden one, who had got up enraged, and had +seated himself, “pardon me, and hear first of all a parable. + +As a wanderer who dreameth of remote things on a lonesome highway, +runneth unawares against a sleeping dog, a dog which lieth in the sun: + +—As both of them then start up and snap at each other, like deadly +enemies, those two beings mortally frightened—so did it happen unto us. + +And yet! And yet—how little was lacking for them to caress each other, +that dog and that lonesome one! Are they not both—lonesome ones!” + +—“Whoever thou art,” said the trodden one, still enraged, “thou +treadest also too nigh me with thy parable, and not only with thy foot! + +Lo! am I then a dog?”—And thereupon the sitting one got up, and pulled +his naked arm out of the swamp. For at first he had lain outstretched +on the ground, hidden and indiscernible, like those who lie in wait for +swamp-game. + +“But whatever art thou about!” called out Zarathustra in alarm, for he +saw a deal of blood streaming over the naked arm,—“what hath hurt thee? +Hath an evil beast bit thee, thou unfortunate one?” + +The bleeding one laughed, still angry, “What matter is it to thee!” said +he, and was about to go on. “Here am I at home and in my province. +Let him question me whoever will: to a dolt, however, I shall hardly +answer.” + +“Thou art mistaken,” said Zarathustra sympathetically, and held him +fast; “thou art mistaken. Here thou art not at home, but in my domain, +and therein shall no one receive any hurt. + +Call me however what thou wilt—I am who I must be. I call myself +Zarathustra. + +Well! Up thither is the way to Zarathustra’s cave: it is not far,—wilt +thou not attend to thy wounds at my home? + +It hath gone badly with thee, thou unfortunate one, in this life: first +a beast bit thee, and then—a man trod upon thee!”— + +When however the trodden one had heard the name of Zarathustra he was +transformed. “What happeneth unto me!” he exclaimed, “WHO preoccupieth +me so much in this life as this one man, namely Zarathustra, and that +one animal that liveth on blood, the leech? + +For the sake of the leech did I lie here by this swamp, like a fisher, +and already had mine outstretched arm been bitten ten times, when there +biteth a still finer leech at my blood, Zarathustra himself! + +O happiness! O miracle! Praised be this day which enticed me into the +swamp! Praised be the best, the livest cupping-glass, that at present +liveth; praised be the great conscience-leech Zarathustra!”— + +Thus spake the trodden one, and Zarathustra rejoiced at his words and +their refined reverential style. “Who art thou?” asked he, and gave +him his hand, “there is much to clear up and elucidate between us, but +already methinketh pure clear day is dawning.” + +“I am THE SPIRITUALLY CONSCIENTIOUS ONE,” answered he who was asked, +“and in matters of the spirit it is difficult for any one to take it +more rigorously, more restrictedly, and more severely than I, except him +from whom I learnt it, Zarathustra himself. + +Better know nothing than half-know many things! Better be a fool on +one’s own account, than a sage on other people’s approbation! I—go to +the basis: + +—What matter if it be great or small? If it be called swamp or sky? +A handbreadth of basis is enough for me, if it be actually basis and +ground! + +—A handbreadth of basis: thereon can one stand. In the true +knowing-knowledge there is nothing great and nothing small.” + +“Then thou art perhaps an expert on the leech?” asked Zarathustra; “and +thou investigatest the leech to its ultimate basis, thou conscientious +one?” + +“O Zarathustra,” answered the trodden one, “that would be something +immense; how could I presume to do so! + +That, however, of which I am master and knower, is the BRAIN of the +leech:—that is MY world! + +And it is also a world! Forgive it, however, that my pride here findeth +expression, for here I have not mine equal. Therefore said I: ‘here am I +at home.’ + +How long have I investigated this one thing, the brain of the leech, so +that here the slippery truth might no longer slip from me! Here is MY +domain! + +—For the sake of this did I cast everything else aside, for the sake of +this did everything else become indifferent to me; and close beside my +knowledge lieth my black ignorance. + +My spiritual conscience requireth from me that it should be so—that I +should know one thing, and not know all else: they are a loathing unto +me, all the semi-spiritual, all the hazy, hovering, and visionary. + +Where mine honesty ceaseth, there am I blind, and want also to be blind. +Where I want to know, however, there want I also to be honest—namely, +severe, rigorous, restricted, cruel and inexorable. + +Because THOU once saidest, O Zarathustra: ‘Spirit is life which itself +cutteth into life’;—that led and allured me to thy doctrine. And +verily, with mine own blood have I increased mine own knowledge!” + +—“As the evidence indicateth,” broke in Zarathustra; for still was the +blood flowing down on the naked arm of the conscientious one. For there +had ten leeches bitten into it. + +“O thou strange fellow, how much doth this very evidence teach +me—namely, thou thyself! And not all, perhaps, might I pour into thy +rigorous ear! + +Well then! We part here! But I would fain find thee again. Up thither is +the way to my cave: to-night shalt thou there be my welcome guest! + +Fain would I also make amends to thy body for Zarathustra treading upon +thee with his feet: I think about that. Just now, however, a cry of +distress calleth me hastily away from thee.” + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +LXV. THE MAGICIAN. + + +1. + +When however Zarathustra had gone round a rock, then saw he on the same +path, not far below him, a man who threw his limbs about like a maniac, +and at last tumbled to the ground on his belly. “Halt!” said then +Zarathustra to his heart, “he there must surely be the higher man, from +him came that dreadful cry of distress,—I will see if I can help him.” + When, however, he ran to the spot where the man lay on the ground, +he found a trembling old man, with fixed eyes; and in spite of all +Zarathustra’s efforts to lift him and set him again on his feet, it was +all in vain. The unfortunate one, also, did not seem to notice that some +one was beside him; on the contrary, he continually looked around with +moving gestures, like one forsaken and isolated from all the world. +At last, however, after much trembling, and convulsion, and +curling-himself-up, he began to lament thus: + + Who warm’th me, who lov’th me still? + Give ardent fingers! + Give heartening charcoal-warmers! + Prone, outstretched, trembling, + Like him, half dead and cold, whose feet one warm’th— + And shaken, ah! by unfamiliar fevers, + Shivering with sharpened, icy-cold frost-arrows, + By thee pursued, my fancy! + Ineffable! Recondite! Sore-frightening! + Thou huntsman ’hind the cloud-banks! + Now lightning-struck by thee, + Thou mocking eye that me in darkness watcheth: + —Thus do I lie, + Bend myself, twist myself, convulsed + With all eternal torture, + And smitten + By thee, cruellest huntsman, + Thou unfamiliar—GOD... + + Smite deeper! + Smite yet once more! + Pierce through and rend my heart! + What mean’th this torture + With dull, indented arrows? + Why look’st thou hither, + Of human pain not weary, + With mischief-loving, godly flash-glances? + Not murder wilt thou, + But torture, torture? + For why—ME torture, + Thou mischief-loving, unfamiliar God?— + + Ha! Ha! + Thou stealest nigh + In midnight’s gloomy hour?... + What wilt thou? + Speak! + Thou crowdst me, pressest— + Ha! now far too closely! + Thou hearst me breathing, + Thou o’erhearst my heart, + Thou ever jealous one! + —Of what, pray, ever jealous? + Off! Off! + For why the ladder? + Wouldst thou GET IN? + To heart in-clamber? + To mine own secretest + Conceptions in-clamber? + Shameless one! Thou unknown one!—Thief! + What seekst thou by thy stealing? + What seekst thou by thy hearkening? + What seekst thou by thy torturing? + Thou torturer! + Thou—hangman-God! + Or shall I, as the mastiffs do, + Roll me before thee? + And cringing, enraptured, frantical, + My tail friendly—waggle! + + In vain! + Goad further! + Cruellest goader! + No dog—thy game just am I, + Cruellest huntsman! + Thy proudest of captives, + Thou robber ’hind the cloud-banks ... + Speak finally! + Thou lightning-veiled one! Thou unknown one! Speak! + What wilt thou, highway-ambusher, from—ME? + What WILT thou, unfamiliar—God? + What? + Ransom-gold? + How much of ransom-gold? + Solicit much—that bid’th my pride! + And be concise—that bid’th mine other pride! + + Ha! Ha! + ME—wantest thou? me? + —Entire?... + + Ha! Ha! + And torturest me, fool that thou art, + Dead-torturest quite my pride? + Give LOVE to me—who warm’th me still? + Who lov’th me still?— + Give ardent fingers, + Give heartening charcoal-warmers, + Give me, the lonesomest, + The ice (ah! seven-fold frozen ice, + For very enemies, + For foes, doth make one thirst), + Give, yield to me, + Cruellest foe, + —THYSELF!— + + Away! + There fled he surely, + My final, only comrade, + My greatest foe, + Mine unfamiliar— + My hangman-God!... + + —Nay! + Come thou back! + WITH all of thy great tortures! + To me the last of lonesome ones, + Oh, come thou back! + All my hot tears in streamlets trickle + Their course to thee! + And all my final hearty fervour— + Up-glow’th to THEE! + Oh, come thou back, + Mine unfamiliar God! my PAIN! + My final bliss! + +2. + +—Here, however, Zarathustra could no longer restrain himself; he took +his staff and struck the wailer with all his might. “Stop this,” cried +he to him with wrathful laughter, “stop this, thou stage-player! Thou +false coiner! Thou liar from the very heart! I know thee well! + +I will soon make warm legs to thee, thou evil magician: I know well +how—to make it hot for such as thou!” + +—“Leave off,” said the old man, and sprang up from the ground, “strike +me no more, O Zarathustra! I did it only for amusement! + +That kind of thing belongeth to mine art. Thee thyself, I wanted to put +to the proof when I gave this performance. And verily, thou hast well +detected me! + +But thou thyself—hast given me no small proof of thyself: thou art +HARD, thou wise Zarathustra! Hard strikest thou with thy ‘truths,’ thy +cudgel forceth from me—THIS truth!” + +—“Flatter not,” answered Zarathustra, still excited and frowning, +“thou stage-player from the heart! Thou art false: why speakest thou—of +truth! + +Thou peacock of peacocks, thou sea of vanity; WHAT didst thou represent +before me, thou evil magician; WHOM was I meant to believe in when thou +wailedst in such wise?” + +“THE PENITENT IN SPIRIT,” said the old man, “it was him—I represented; +thou thyself once devisedst this expression— + +—The poet and magician who at last turneth his spirit against himself, +the transformed one who freezeth to death by his bad science and +conscience. + +And just acknowledge it: it was long, O Zarathustra, before thou +discoveredst my trick and lie! Thou BELIEVEDST in my distress when thou +heldest my head with both thy hands,— + +—I heard thee lament ‘we have loved him too little, loved him too +little!’ Because I so far deceived thee, my wickedness rejoiced in me.” + +“Thou mayest have deceived subtler ones than I,” said Zarathustra +sternly. “I am not on my guard against deceivers; I HAVE TO BE without +precaution: so willeth my lot. + +Thou, however,—MUST deceive: so far do I know thee! Thou must ever be +equivocal, trivocal, quadrivocal, and quinquivocal! Even what thou hast +now confessed, is not nearly true enough nor false enough for me! + +Thou bad false coiner, how couldst thou do otherwise! Thy very malady +wouldst thou whitewash if thou showed thyself naked to thy physician. + +Thus didst thou whitewash thy lie before me when thou saidst: ‘I did +so ONLY for amusement!’ There was also SERIOUSNESS therein, thou ART +something of a penitent-in-spirit! + +I divine thee well: thou hast become the enchanter of all the world; but +for thyself thou hast no lie or artifice left,—thou art disenchanted to +thyself! + +Thou hast reaped disgust as thy one truth. No word in thee is any longer +genuine, but thy mouth is so: that is to say, the disgust that cleaveth +unto thy mouth.”— + +—“Who art thou at all!” cried here the old magician with defiant voice, +“who dareth to speak thus unto ME, the greatest man now living?”—and a +green flash shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But immediately after he +changed, and said sadly: + +“O Zarathustra, I am weary of it, I am disgusted with mine arts, I am +not GREAT, why do I dissemble! But thou knowest it well—I sought for +greatness! + +A great man I wanted to appear, and persuaded many; but the lie hath +been beyond my power. On it do I collapse. + +O Zarathustra, everything is a lie in me; but that I collapse—this my +collapsing is GENUINE!”— + +“It honoureth thee,” said Zarathustra gloomily, looking down with +sidelong glance, “it honoureth thee that thou soughtest for greatness, +but it betrayeth thee also. Thou art not great. + +Thou bad old magician, THAT is the best and the honestest thing I honour +in thee, that thou hast become weary of thyself, and hast expressed it: +‘I am not great.’ + +THEREIN do I honour thee as a penitent-in-spirit, and although only for +the twinkling of an eye, in that one moment wast thou—genuine. + +But tell me, what seekest thou here in MY forests and rocks? And if thou +hast put thyself in MY way, what proof of me wouldst thou have?— + +—Wherein didst thou put ME to the test?” + +Thus spake Zarathustra, and his eyes sparkled. But the old magician kept +silence for a while; then said he: “Did I put thee to the test? I—seek +only. + +O Zarathustra, I seek a genuine one, a right one, a simple one, an +unequivocal one, a man of perfect honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint +of knowledge, a great man! + +Knowest thou it not, O Zarathustra? I SEEK ZARATHUSTRA.” + +—And here there arose a long silence between them: Zarathustra, +however, became profoundly absorbed in thought, so that he shut his +eyes. But afterwards coming back to the situation, he grasped the hand +of the magician, and said, full of politeness and policy: + +“Well! Up thither leadeth the way, there is the cave of Zarathustra. In +it mayest thou seek him whom thou wouldst fain find. + +And ask counsel of mine animals, mine eagle and my serpent: they shall +help thee to seek. My cave however is large. + +I myself, to be sure—I have as yet seen no great man. That which is +great, the acutest eye is at present insensible to it. It is the kingdom +of the populace. + +Many a one have I found who stretched and inflated himself, and the +people cried: ‘Behold; a great man!’ But what good do all bellows do! +The wind cometh out at last. + +At last bursteth the frog which hath inflated itself too long: then +cometh out the wind. To prick a swollen one in the belly, I call good +pastime. Hear that, ye boys! + +Our to-day is of the populace: who still KNOWETH what is great and what +is small! Who could there seek successfully for greatness! A fool only: +it succeedeth with fools. + +Thou seekest for great men, thou strange fool? Who TAUGHT that to thee? +Is to-day the time for it? Oh, thou bad seeker, why dost thou—tempt +me?”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra, comforted in his heart, and went laughing on his +way. + + + + +LXVI. OUT OF SERVICE. + + +Not long, however, after Zarathustra had freed himself from the +magician, he again saw a person sitting beside the path which he +followed, namely a tall, black man, with a haggard, pale countenance: +THIS MAN grieved him exceedingly. “Alas,” said he to his heart, “there +sitteth disguised affliction; methinketh he is of the type of the +priests: what do THEY want in my domain? + +What! Hardly have I escaped from that magician, and must another +necromancer again run across my path,— + +—Some sorcerer with laying-on-of-hands, some sombre wonder-worker by +the grace of God, some anointed world-maligner, whom, may the devil +take! + +But the devil is never at the place which would be his right place: he +always cometh too late, that cursed dwarf and club-foot!”— + +Thus cursed Zarathustra impatiently in his heart, and considered how +with averted look he might slip past the black man. But behold, it came +about otherwise. For at the same moment had the sitting one already +perceived him; and not unlike one whom an unexpected happiness +overtaketh, he sprang to his feet, and went straight towards +Zarathustra. + +“Whoever thou art, thou traveller,” said he, “help a strayed one, a +seeker, an old man, who may here easily come to grief! + +The world here is strange to me, and remote; wild beasts also did I hear +howling; and he who could have given me protection—he is himself no +more. + +I was seeking the pious man, a saint and an anchorite, who, alone in his +forest, had not yet heard of what all the world knoweth at present.” + +“WHAT doth all the world know at present?” asked Zarathustra. “Perhaps +that the old God no longer liveth, in whom all the world once believed?” + +“Thou sayest it,” answered the old man sorrowfully. “And I served that +old God until his last hour. + +Now, however, am I out of service, without master, and yet not free; +likewise am I no longer merry even for an hour, except it be in +recollections. + +Therefore did I ascend into these mountains, that I might finally have +a festival for myself once more, as becometh an old pope and +church-father: for know it, that I am the last pope!—a festival of +pious recollections and divine services. + +Now, however, is he himself dead, the most pious of men, the saint in +the forest, who praised his God constantly with singing and mumbling. + +He himself found I no longer when I found his cot—but two wolves found +I therein, which howled on account of his death,—for all animals loved +him. Then did I haste away. + +Had I thus come in vain into these forests and mountains? Then did my +heart determine that I should seek another, the most pious of all +those who believe not in God—, my heart determined that I should seek +Zarathustra!” + +Thus spake the hoary man, and gazed with keen eyes at him who stood +before him. Zarathustra however seized the hand of the old pope and +regarded it a long while with admiration. + +“Lo! thou venerable one,” said he then, “what a fine and long hand! That +is the hand of one who hath ever dispensed blessings. Now, however, doth +it hold fast him whom thou seekest, me, Zarathustra. + +It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who saith: ‘Who is ungodlier than I, +that I may enjoy his teaching?’”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra, and penetrated with his glances the thoughts and +arrear-thoughts of the old pope. At last the latter began: + +“He who most loved and possessed him hath now also lost him most—: + +—Lo, I myself am surely the most godless of us at present? But who +could rejoice at that!”— + +—“Thou servedst him to the last?” asked Zarathustra thoughtfully, after +a deep silence, “thou knowest HOW he died? Is it true what they say, +that sympathy choked him; + +—That he saw how MAN hung on the cross, and could not endure it;—that +his love to man became his hell, and at last his death?”— + +The old pope however did not answer, but looked aside timidly, with a +painful and gloomy expression. + +“Let him go,” said Zarathustra, after prolonged meditation, still +looking the old man straight in the eye. + +“Let him go, he is gone. And though it honoureth thee that thou speakest +only in praise of this dead one, yet thou knowest as well as I WHO he +was, and that he went curious ways.” + +“To speak before three eyes,” said the old pope cheerfully (he was blind +of one eye), “in divine matters I am more enlightened than Zarathustra +himself—and may well be so. + +My love served him long years, my will followed all his will. A good +servant, however, knoweth everything, and many a thing even which a +master hideth from himself. + +He was a hidden God, full of secrecy. Verily, he did not come by his +son otherwise than by secret ways. At the door of his faith standeth +adultery. + +Whoever extolleth him as a God of love, doth not think highly enough of +love itself. Did not that God want also to be judge? But the loving one +loveth irrespective of reward and requital. + +When he was young, that God out of the Orient, then was he harsh and +revengeful, and built himself a hell for the delight of his favourites. + +At last, however, he became old and soft and mellow and pitiful, +more like a grandfather than a father, but most like a tottering old +grandmother. + +There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney-corner, fretting on account +of his weak legs, world-weary, will-weary, and one day he suffocated of +his all-too-great pity.”— + +“Thou old pope,” said here Zarathustra interposing, “hast thou seen THAT +with thine eyes? It could well have happened in that way: in that way, +AND also otherwise. When Gods die they always die many kinds of death. + +Well! At all events, one way or other—he is gone! He was counter to the +taste of mine ears and eyes; worse than that I should not like to say +against him. + +I love everything that looketh bright and speaketh honestly. But +he—thou knowest it, forsooth, thou old priest, there was something of +thy type in him, the priest-type—he was equivocal. + +He was also indistinct. How he raged at us, this wrath-snorter, because +we understood him badly! But why did he not speak more clearly? + +And if the fault lay in our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him +badly? If there was dirt in our ears, well! who put it in them? + +Too much miscarried with him, this potter who had not learned +thoroughly! That he took revenge on his pots and creations, however, +because they turned out badly—that was a sin against GOOD TASTE. + +There is also good taste in piety: THIS at last said: ‘Away with SUCH +a God! Better to have no God, better to set up destiny on one’s own +account, better to be a fool, better to be God oneself!’” + +—“What do I hear!” said then the old pope, with intent ears; “O +Zarathustra, thou art more pious than thou believest, with such an +unbelief! Some God in thee hath converted thee to thine ungodliness. + +Is it not thy piety itself which no longer letteth thee believe in a +God? And thine over-great honesty will yet lead thee even beyond good +and evil! + +Behold, what hath been reserved for thee? Thou hast eyes and hands and +mouth, which have been predestined for blessing from eternity. One doth +not bless with the hand alone. + +Nigh unto thee, though thou professest to be the ungodliest one, I feel +a hale and holy odour of long benedictions: I feel glad and grieved +thereby. + +Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth +shall I now feel better than with thee!”— + +“Amen! So shall it be!” said Zarathustra, with great astonishment; “up +thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra. + +Gladly, forsooth, would I conduct thee thither myself, thou venerable +one; for I love all pious men. But now a cry of distress calleth me +hastily away from thee. + +In my domain shall no one come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And +best of all would I like to put every sorrowful one again on firm land +and firm legs. + +Who, however, could take THY melancholy off thy shoulders? For that I am +too weak. Long, verily, should we have to wait until some one re-awoke +thy God for thee. + +For that old God liveth no more: he is indeed dead.”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +LXVII. THE UGLIEST MAN. + + +—And again did Zarathustra’s feet run through mountains and forests, +and his eyes sought and sought, but nowhere was he to be seen whom they +wanted to see—the sorely distressed sufferer and crier. On the whole +way, however, he rejoiced in his heart and was full of gratitude. “What +good things,” said he, “hath this day given me, as amends for its bad +beginning! What strange interlocutors have I found! + +At their words will I now chew a long while as at good corn; small +shall my teeth grind and crush them, until they flow like milk into my +soul!”— + +When, however, the path again curved round a rock, all at once the +landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered into a realm of death. Here +bristled aloft black and red cliffs, without any grass, tree, or bird’s +voice. For it was a valley which all animals avoided, even the beasts of +prey, except that a species of ugly, thick, green serpent came here to +die when they became old. Therefore the shepherds called this valley: +“Serpent-death.” + +Zarathustra, however, became absorbed in dark recollections, for it +seemed to him as if he had once before stood in this valley. And much +heaviness settled on his mind, so that he walked slowly and always more +slowly, and at last stood still. Then, however, when he opened his eyes, +he saw something sitting by the wayside shaped like a man, and hardly +like a man, something nondescript. And all at once there came over +Zarathustra a great shame, because he had gazed on such a thing. +Blushing up to the very roots of his white hair, he turned aside his +glance, and raised his foot that he might leave this ill-starred place. +Then, however, became the dead wilderness vocal: for from the ground a +noise welled up, gurgling and rattling, as water gurgleth and rattleth +at night through stopped-up water-pipes; and at last it turned into +human voice and human speech:—it sounded thus: + +“Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Read my riddle! Say, say! WHAT IS THE REVENGE +ON THE WITNESS? + +I entice thee back; here is smooth ice! See to it, see to it, that thy +pride doth not here break its legs! + +Thou thinkest thyself wise, thou proud Zarathustra! Read then the +riddle, thou hard nut-cracker,—the riddle that I am! Say then: who am +_I_!” + +—When however Zarathustra had heard these words,—what think ye then +took place in his soul? PITY OVERCAME HIM; and he sank down all at +once, like an oak that hath long withstood many tree-fellers,—heavily, +suddenly, to the terror even of those who meant to fell it. But +immediately he got up again from the ground, and his countenance became +stern. + +“I know thee well,” said he, with a brazen voice, “THOU ART THE MURDERER +OF GOD! Let me go. + +Thou couldst not ENDURE him who beheld THEE,—who ever beheld thee +through and through, thou ugliest man. Thou tookest revenge on this +witness!” + +Thus spake Zarathustra and was about to go; but the nondescript grasped +at a corner of his garment and began anew to gurgle and seek for words. +“Stay,” said he at last— + +—“Stay! Do not pass by! I have divined what axe it was that struck thee +to the ground: hail to thee, O Zarathustra, that thou art again upon thy +feet! + +Thou hast divined, I know it well, how the man feeleth who killed +him,—the murderer of God. Stay! Sit down here beside me; it is not to +no purpose. + +To whom would I go but unto thee? Stay, sit down! Do not however look at +me! Honour thus—mine ugliness! + +They persecute me: now art THOU my last refuge. NOT with their hatred, +NOT with their bailiffs;—Oh, such persecution would I mock at, and be +proud and cheerful! + +Hath not all success hitherto been with the well-persecuted ones? And +he who persecuteth well learneth readily to be OBSEQUENT—when once he +is—put behind! But it is their PITY— + +—Their pity is it from which I flee away and flee to thee. O +Zarathustra, protect me, thou, my last refuge, thou sole one who +divinedst me: + +—Thou hast divined how the man feeleth who killed HIM. Stay! And if +thou wilt go, thou impatient one, go not the way that I came. THAT way +is bad. + +Art thou angry with me because I have already racked language too long? +Because I have already counselled thee? But know that it is I, the +ugliest man, + +—Who have also the largest, heaviest feet. Where _I_ have gone, the way +is bad. I tread all paths to death and destruction. + +But that thou passedst me by in silence, that thou blushedst—I saw it +well: thereby did I know thee as Zarathustra. + +Every one else would have thrown to me his alms, his pity, in look and +speech. But for that—I am not beggar enough: that didst thou divine. + +For that I am too RICH, rich in what is great, frightful, ugliest, most +unutterable! Thy shame, O Zarathustra, HONOURED me! + +With difficulty did I get out of the crowd of the pitiful,—that I might +find the only one who at present teacheth that ‘pity is obtrusive’— +thyself, O Zarathustra! + +—Whether it be the pity of a God, or whether it be human pity, it is +offensive to modesty. And unwillingness to help may be nobler than the +virtue that rusheth to do so. + +THAT however—namely, pity—is called virtue itself at present by +all petty people:—they have no reverence for great misfortune, great +ugliness, great failure. + +Beyond all these do I look, as a dog looketh over the backs of thronging +flocks of sheep. They are petty, good-wooled, good-willed, grey people. + +As the heron looketh contemptuously at shallow pools, with backward-bent +head, so do I look at the throng of grey little waves and wills and +souls. + +Too long have we acknowledged them to be right, those petty people: SO +we have at last given them power as well;—and now do they teach that +‘good is only what petty people call good.’ + +And ‘truth’ is at present what the preacher spake who himself sprang +from them, that singular saint and advocate of the petty people, who +testified of himself: ‘I—am the truth.’ + +That immodest one hath long made the petty people greatly puffed up,—he +who taught no small error when he taught: ‘I—am the truth.’ + +Hath an immodest one ever been answered more courteously?—Thou, +however, O Zarathustra, passedst him by, and saidst: ‘Nay! Nay! Three +times Nay!’ + +Thou warnedst against his error; thou warnedst—the first to do +so—against pity:—not every one, not none, but thyself and thy type. + +Thou art ashamed of the shame of the great sufferer; and verily when +thou sayest: ‘From pity there cometh a heavy cloud; take heed, ye men!’ + +—When thou teachest: ‘All creators are hard, all great love is beyond +their pity:’ O Zarathustra, how well versed dost thou seem to me in +weather-signs! + +Thou thyself, however,—warn thyself also against THY pity! For many are +on their way to thee, many suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning, +freezing ones— + +I warn thee also against myself. Thou hast read my best, my worst +riddle, myself, and what I have done. I know the axe that felleth thee. + +But he—HAD TO die: he looked with eyes which beheld EVERYTHING,—he +beheld men’s depths and dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness. + +His pity knew no modesty: he crept into my dirtiest corners. This most +prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one had to die. + +He ever beheld ME: on such a witness I would have revenge—or not live +myself. + +The God who beheld everything, AND ALSO MAN: that God had to die! Man +cannot ENDURE it that such a witness should live.” + +Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra however got up, and prepared to +go on: for he felt frozen to the very bowels. + +“Thou nondescript,” said he, “thou warnedst me against thy path. As +thanks for it I praise mine to thee. Behold, up thither is the cave of +Zarathustra. + +My cave is large and deep and hath many corners; there findeth he +that is most hidden his hiding-place. And close beside it, there are +a hundred lurking-places and by-places for creeping, fluttering, and +hopping creatures. + +Thou outcast, who hast cast thyself out, thou wilt not live amongst men +and men’s pity? Well then, do like me! Thus wilt thou learn also from +me; only the doer learneth. + +And talk first and foremost to mine animals! The proudest animal and the +wisest animal—they might well be the right counsellors for us both!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more thoughtfully and slowly +even than before: for he asked himself many things, and hardly knew what +to answer. + +“How poor indeed is man,” thought he in his heart, “how ugly, how +wheezy, how full of hidden shame! + +They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how great must that self-love +be! How much contempt is opposed to it! + +Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath despised himself,—a great +lover methinketh he is, and a great despiser. + +No one have I yet found who more thoroughly despised himself: even THAT +is elevation. Alas, was THIS perhaps the higher man whose cry I heard? + +I love the great despisers. Man is something that hath to be +surpassed.”— + + + + +LXVIII. THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. + + +When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he was chilled and felt +lonesome: for much coldness and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so +that even his limbs became colder thereby. When, however, he wandered +on and on, uphill and down, at times past green meadows, though also +sometimes over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps an impatient +brook had made its bed, then he turned all at once warmer and heartier +again. + +“What hath happened unto me?” he asked himself, “something warm and +living quickeneth me; it must be in the neighbourhood. + +Already am I less alone; unconscious companions and brethren rove around +me; their warm breath toucheth my soul.” + +When, however, he spied about and sought for the comforters of his +lonesomeness, behold, there were kine there standing together on an +eminence, whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart. The kine, +however, seemed to listen eagerly to a speaker, and took no heed of him +who approached. When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto them, +then did he hear plainly that a human voice spake in the midst of the +kine, and apparently all of them had turned their heads towards the +speaker. + +Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the animals aside; for he +feared that some one had here met with harm, which the pity of the +kine would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was deceived; for +behold, there sat a man on the ground who seemed to be persuading +the animals to have no fear of him, a peaceable man and +Preacher-on-the-Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached. “What +dost thou seek here?” called out Zarathustra in astonishment. + +“What do I here seek?” answered he: “the same that thou seekest, thou +mischief-maker; that is to say, happiness upon earth. + +To that end, however, I would fain learn of these kine. For I tell thee +that I have already talked half a morning unto them, and just now were +they about to give me their answer. Why dost thou disturb them? + +Except we be converted and become as kine, we shall in no wise enter +into the kingdom of heaven. For we ought to learn from them one thing: +ruminating. + +And verily, although a man should gain the whole world, and yet not +learn one thing, ruminating, what would it profit him! He would not be +rid of his affliction, + +—His great affliction: that, however, is at present called DISGUST. Who +hath not at present his heart, his mouth and his eyes full of disgust? +Thou also! Thou also! But behold these kine!”— + +Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and turned then his own look +towards Zarathustra—for hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine—: +then, however, he put on a different expression. “Who is this with whom +I talk?” he exclaimed frightened, and sprang up from the ground. + +“This is the man without disgust, this is Zarathustra himself, the +surmounter of the great disgust, this is the eye, this is the mouth, +this is the heart of Zarathustra himself.” + +And whilst he thus spake he kissed with o’erflowing eyes the hands +of him with whom he spake, and behaved altogether like one to whom a +precious gift and jewel hath fallen unawares from heaven. The kine, +however, gazed at it all and wondered. + +“Speak not of me, thou strange one; thou amiable one!” said Zarathustra, +and restrained his affection, “speak to me firstly of thyself! Art thou +not the voluntary beggar who once cast away great riches,— + +—Who was ashamed of his riches and of the rich, and fled to the poorest +to bestow upon them his abundance and his heart? But they received him +not.” + +“But they received me not,” said the voluntary beggar, “thou knowest it, +forsooth. So I went at last to the animals and to those kine.” + +“Then learnedst thou,” interrupted Zarathustra, “how much harder it is +to give properly than to take properly, and that bestowing well is an +ART—the last, subtlest master-art of kindness.” + +“Especially nowadays,” answered the voluntary beggar: “at present, that +is to say, when everything low hath become rebellious and exclusive and +haughty in its manner—in the manner of the populace. + +For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth, for the great, evil, +long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth! + +Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty giving; +and the over-rich may be on their guard! + +Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out of all-too-small +necks:—of such bottles at present one willingly breaketh the necks. + +Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge, populace-pride: all +these struck mine eye. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed. +The kingdom of heaven, however, is with the kine.” + +“And why is it not with the rich?” asked Zarathustra temptingly, while +he kept back the kine which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one. + +“Why dost thou tempt me?” answered the other. “Thou knowest it thyself +better even than I. What was it drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra? +Was it not my disgust at the richest? + +—At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and rank thoughts, who pick +up profit out of all kinds of rubbish—at this rabble that stinketh to +heaven, + +—At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers were pickpockets, +or carrion-crows, or rag-pickers, with wives compliant, lewd and +forgetful:—for they are all of them not far different from harlots— + +Populace above, populace below! What are ‘poor’ and ‘rich’ at present! +That distinction did I unlearn,—then did I flee away further and ever +further, until I came to those kine.” + +Thus spake the peaceful one, and puffed himself and perspired with +his words: so that the kine wondered anew. Zarathustra, however, kept +looking into his face with a smile, all the time the man talked so +severely—and shook silently his head. + +“Thou doest violence to thyself, thou Preacher-on-the-Mount, when thou +usest such severe words. For such severity neither thy mouth nor thine +eye have been given thee. + +Nor, methinketh, hath thy stomach either: unto IT all such rage and +hatred and foaming-over is repugnant. Thy stomach wanteth softer things: +thou art not a butcher. + +Rather seemest thou to me a plant-eater and a root-man. Perhaps thou +grindest corn. Certainly, however, thou art averse to fleshly joys, and +thou lovest honey.” + +“Thou hast divined me well,” answered the voluntary beggar, with +lightened heart. “I love honey, I also grind corn; for I have sought out +what tasteth sweetly and maketh pure breath: + +—Also what requireth a long time, a day’s-work and a mouth’s-work for +gentle idlers and sluggards. + +Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it: they have devised +ruminating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all heavy +thoughts which inflate the heart.” + +—“Well!” said Zarathustra, “thou shouldst also see MINE animals, mine +eagle and my serpent,—their like do not at present exist on earth. + +Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave: be to-night its guest. And +talk to mine animals of the happiness of animals,— + +—Until I myself come home. For now a cry of distress calleth me hastily +away from thee. Also, shouldst thou find new honey with me, ice-cold, +golden-comb-honey, eat it! + +Now, however, take leave at once of thy kine, thou strange one! thou +amiable one! though it be hard for thee. For they are thy warmest +friends and preceptors!”— + +—“One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,” answered the voluntary +beggar. “Thou thyself art good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a +cow!” + +“Away, away with thee! thou evil flatterer!” cried Zarathustra +mischievously, “why dost thou spoil me with such praise and +flattery-honey? + +“Away, away from me!” cried he once more, and heaved his stick at the +fond beggar, who, however, ran nimbly away. + + + + +LXIX. THE SHADOW. + + +Scarcely however was the voluntary beggar gone in haste, and Zarathustra +again alone, when he heard behind him a new voice which called out: +“Stay! Zarathustra! Do wait! It is myself, forsooth, O Zarathustra, +myself, thy shadow!” But Zarathustra did not wait; for a sudden +irritation came over him on account of the crowd and the crowding in his +mountains. “Whither hath my lonesomeness gone?” spake he. + +“It is verily becoming too much for me; these mountains swarm; my +kingdom is no longer of THIS world; I require new mountains. + +My shadow calleth me? What matter about my shadow! Let it run after me! +I—run away from it.” + +Thus spake Zarathustra to his heart and ran away. But the one behind +followed after him, so that immediately there were three runners, +one after the other—namely, foremost the voluntary beggar, then +Zarathustra, and thirdly, and hindmost, his shadow. But not long had +they run thus when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly, and shook +off with one jerk all his irritation and detestation. + +“What!” said he, “have not the most ludicrous things always happened to +us old anchorites and saints? + +Verily, my folly hath grown big in the mountains! Now do I hear six old +fools’ legs rattling behind one another! + +But doth Zarathustra need to be frightened by his shadow? Also, +methinketh that after all it hath longer legs than mine.” + +Thus spake Zarathustra, and, laughing with eyes and entrails, he stood +still and turned round quickly—and behold, he almost thereby threw his +shadow and follower to the ground, so closely had the latter followed at +his heels, and so weak was he. For when Zarathustra scrutinised him +with his glance he was frightened as by a sudden apparition, so slender, +swarthy, hollow and worn-out did this follower appear. + +“Who art thou?” asked Zarathustra vehemently, “what doest thou here? And +why callest thou thyself my shadow? Thou art not pleasing unto me.” + +“Forgive me,” answered the shadow, “that it is I; and if I please thee +not—well, O Zarathustra! therein do I admire thee and thy good taste. + +A wanderer am I, who have walked long at thy heels; always on the way, +but without a goal, also without a home: so that verily, I lack little +of being the eternally Wandering Jew, except that I am not eternal and +not a Jew. + +What? Must I ever be on the way? Whirled by every wind, unsettled, +driven about? O earth, thou hast become too round for me! + +On every surface have I already sat, like tired dust have I fallen +asleep on mirrors and window-panes: everything taketh from me, nothing +giveth; I become thin—I am almost equal to a shadow. + +After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and hie longest; and +though I hid myself from thee, I was nevertheless thy best shadow: +wherever thou hast sat, there sat I also. + +With thee have I wandered about in the remotest, coldest worlds, like a +phantom that voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows. + +With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden, all the worst and the +furthest: and if there be anything of virtue in me, it is that I have +had no fear of any prohibition. + +With thee have I broken up whatever my heart revered; all +boundary-stones and statues have I o’erthrown; the most dangerous wishes +did I pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go. + +With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and worths and in great +names. When the devil casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall +away? It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin. + +‘Nothing is true, all is permitted’: so said I to myself. Into the +coldest water did I plunge with head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand +there naked on that account, like a red crab! + +Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my shame and all my belief +in the good! Ah, where is the lying innocence which I once possessed, +the innocence of the good and of their noble lies! + +Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of truth: then did it +kick me on the face. Sometimes I meant to lie, and behold! then only did +I hit—the truth. + +Too much hath become clear unto me: now it doth not concern me any more. +Nothing liveth any longer that I love,—how should I still love myself? + +‘To live as I incline, or not to live at all’: so do I wish; so wisheth +also the holiest. But alas! how have _I_ still—inclination? + +Have _I_—still a goal? A haven towards which MY sail is set? + +A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth WHITHER he saileth, knoweth what +wind is good, and a fair wind for him. + +What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an unstable +will; fluttering wings; a broken backbone. + +This seeking for MY home: O Zarathustra, dost thou know that this +seeking hath been MY home-sickening; it eateth me up. + +‘WHERE is—MY home?’ For it do I ask and seek, and have sought, but +have not found it. O eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O +eternal—in-vain!” + +Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra’s countenance lengthened at his +words. “Thou art my shadow!” said he at last sadly. + +“Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and wanderer! Thou hast had a +bad day: see that a still worse evening doth not overtake thee! + +To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last even a prisoner blessed. +Didst thou ever see how captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, +they enjoy their new security. + +Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture thee, a hard, rigorous +delusion! For now everything that is narrow and fixed seduceth and +tempteth thee. + +Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas, how wilt thou forego and forget that +loss? Thereby—hast thou also lost thy way! + +Thou poor rover and rambler, thou tired butterfly! wilt thou have a rest +and a home this evening? Then go up to my cave! + +Thither leadeth the way to my cave. And now will I run quickly away from +thee again. Already lieth as it were a shadow upon me. + +I will run alone, so that it may again become bright around me. +Therefore must I still be a long time merrily upon my legs. In the +evening, however, there will be—dancing with me!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +LXX. NOONTIDE. + + +—And Zarathustra ran and ran, but he found no one else, and was alone +and ever found himself again; he enjoyed and quaffed his solitude, and +thought of good things—for hours. About the hour of noontide, however, +when the sun stood exactly over Zarathustra’s head, he passed an old, +bent and gnarled tree, which was encircled round by the ardent love of +a vine, and hidden from itself; from this there hung yellow grapes in +abundance, confronting the wanderer. Then he felt inclined to quench a +little thirst, and to break off for himself a cluster of grapes. When, +however, he had already his arm outstretched for that purpose, he felt +still more inclined for something else—namely, to lie down beside the +tree at the hour of perfect noontide and sleep. + +This Zarathustra did; and no sooner had he laid himself on the ground in +the stillness and secrecy of the variegated grass, than he had forgotten +his little thirst, and fell asleep. For as the proverb of Zarathustra +saith: “One thing is more necessary than the other.” Only that his eyes +remained open:—for they never grew weary of viewing and admiring the +tree and the love of the vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra +spake thus to his heart: + +“Hush! Hush! Hath not the world now become perfect? What hath happened +unto me? + +As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon parqueted seas, light, +feather-light, so—danceth sleep upon me. + +No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul awake. Light is it, +verily, feather-light. + +It persuadeth me, I know not how, it toucheth me inwardly with a +caressing hand, it constraineth me. Yea, it constraineth me, so that my +soul stretcheth itself out:— + +—How long and weary it becometh, my strange soul! Hath a seventh-day +evening come to it precisely at noontide? Hath it already wandered too +long, blissfully, among good and ripe things? + +It stretcheth itself out, long—longer! it lieth still, my strange +soul. Too many good things hath it already tasted; this golden sadness +oppresseth it, it distorteth its mouth. + +—As a ship that putteth into the calmest cove:—it now draweth up to +the land, weary of long voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more +faithful? + +As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the shore:—then it sufficeth +for a spider to spin its thread from the ship to the land. No stronger +ropes are required there. + +As such a weary ship in the calmest cove, so do I also now repose, nigh +to the earth, faithful, trusting, waiting, bound to it with the lightest +threads. + +O happiness! O happiness! Wilt thou perhaps sing, O my soul? Thou liest +in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd +playeth his pipe. + +Take care! Hot noontide sleepeth on the fields. Do not sing! Hush! The +world is perfect. + +Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul! Do not even whisper! Lo—hush! +The old noontide sleepeth, it moveth its mouth: doth it not just now +drink a drop of happiness— + +—An old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine? Something whisketh +over it, its happiness laugheth. Thus—laugheth a God. Hush!— + +—‘For happiness, how little sufficeth for happiness!’ Thus spake I +once and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy: THAT have I now +learned. Wise fools speak better. + +The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a +lizard’s rustling, a breath, a whisk, an eye-glance—LITTLE maketh up +the BEST happiness. Hush! + +—What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time flown away? Do I not fall? Have +I not fallen—hark! into the well of eternity? + +—What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth me—alas—to the heart? To +the heart! Oh, break up, break up, my heart, after such happiness, after +such a sting! + +—What? Hath not the world just now become perfect? Round and ripe? Oh, +for the golden round ring—whither doth it fly? Let me run after it! +Quick! + +Hush—” (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and felt that he was +asleep.) + +“Up!” said he to himself, “thou sleeper! Thou noontide sleeper! Well +then, up, ye old legs! It is time and more than time; many a good +stretch of road is still awaiting you— + +Now have ye slept your fill; for how long a time? A half-eternity! Well +then, up now, mine old heart! For how long after such a sleep mayest +thou—remain awake?” + +(But then did he fall asleep anew, and his soul spake against him and +defended itself, and lay down again)—“Leave me alone! Hush! Hath not +the world just now become perfect? Oh, for the golden round ball!— + +“Get up,” said Zarathustra, “thou little thief, thou sluggard! What! +Still stretching thyself, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells? + +Who art thou then, O my soul!” (and here he became frightened, for a +sunbeam shot down from heaven upon his face.) + +“O heaven above me,” said he sighing, and sat upright, “thou gazest at +me? Thou hearkenest unto my strange soul? + +When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell down upon all earthly +things,—when wilt thou drink this strange soul— + +—When, thou well of eternity! thou joyous, awful, noontide abyss! when +wilt thou drink my soul back into thee?” + +Thus spake Zarathustra, and rose from his couch beside the tree, as if +awakening from a strange drunkenness: and behold! there stood the +sun still exactly above his head. One might, however, rightly infer +therefrom that Zarathustra had not then slept long. + + + + +LXXI. THE GREETING. + + +It was late in the afternoon only when Zarathustra, after long useless +searching and strolling about, again came home to his cave. When, +however, he stood over against it, not more than twenty paces therefrom, +the thing happened which he now least of all expected: he heard anew the +great CRY OF DISTRESS. And extraordinary! this time the cry came out +of his own cave. It was a long, manifold, peculiar cry, and Zarathustra +plainly distinguished that it was composed of many voices: although +heard at a distance it might sound like the cry out of a single mouth. + +Thereupon Zarathustra rushed forward to his cave, and behold! what a +spectacle awaited him after that concert! For there did they all sit +together whom he had passed during the day: the king on the right and +the king on the left, the old magician, the pope, the voluntary +beggar, the shadow, the intellectually conscientious one, the sorrowful +soothsayer, and the ass; the ugliest man, however, had set a crown on +his head, and had put round him two purple girdles,—for he liked, like +all ugly ones, to disguise himself and play the handsome person. In the +midst, however, of that sorrowful company stood Zarathustra’s eagle, +ruffled and disquieted, for it had been called upon to answer too much +for which its pride had not any answer; the wise serpent however hung +round its neck. + +All this did Zarathustra behold with great astonishment; then however he +scrutinised each individual guest with courteous curiosity, read their +souls and wondered anew. In the meantime the assembled ones had risen +from their seats, and waited with reverence for Zarathustra to speak. +Zarathustra however spake thus: + +“Ye despairing ones! Ye strange ones! So it was YOUR cry of distress +that I heard? And now do I know also where he is to be sought, whom I +have sought for in vain to-day: THE HIGHER MAN—: + +—In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man! But why do I wonder! Have +not I myself allured him to me by honey-offerings and artful lure-calls +of my happiness? + +But it seemeth to me that ye are badly adapted for company: ye make +one another’s hearts fretful, ye that cry for help, when ye sit here +together? There is one that must first come, + +—One who will make you laugh once more, a good jovial buffoon, a +dancer, a wind, a wild romp, some old fool:—what think ye? + +Forgive me, however, ye despairing ones, for speaking such trivial words +before you, unworthy, verily, of such guests! But ye do not divine WHAT +maketh my heart wanton:— + +—Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it me! For every one +becometh courageous who beholdeth a despairing one. To encourage a +despairing one—every one thinketh himself strong enough to do so. + +To myself have ye given this power,—a good gift, mine honourable +guests! An excellent guest’s-present! Well, do not then upbraid when I +also offer you something of mine. + +This is mine empire and my dominion: that which is mine, however, shall +this evening and to-night be yours. Mine animals shall serve you: let my +cave be your resting-place! + +At house and home with me shall no one despair: in my purlieus do I +protect every one from his wild beasts. And that is the first thing +which I offer you: security! + +The second thing, however, is my little finger. And when ye have THAT, +then take the whole hand also, yea, and the heart with it! Welcome here, +welcome to you, my guests!” + +Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed with love and mischief. After this +greeting his guests bowed once more and were reverentially silent; the +king on the right, however, answered him in their name. + +“O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast given us thy hand and thy +greeting, we recognise thee as Zarathustra. Thou hast humbled thyself +before us; almost hast thou hurt our reverence—: + +—Who however could have humbled himself as thou hast done, with such +pride? THAT uplifteth us ourselves; a refreshment is it, to our eyes and +hearts. + +To behold this, merely, gladly would we ascend higher mountains than +this. For as eager beholders have we come; we wanted to see what +brighteneth dim eyes. + +And lo! now is it all over with our cries of distress. Now are our minds +and hearts open and enraptured. Little is lacking for our spirits to +become wanton. + +There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth more pleasingly on earth +than a lofty, strong will: it is the finest growth. An entire landscape +refresheth itself at one such tree. + +To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which groweth up like +thee—tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood, +stately,— + +—In the end, however, grasping out for ITS dominion with strong, green +branches, asking weighty questions of the wind, the storm, and whatever +is at home on high places; + +—Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh! who should not +ascend high mountains to behold such growths? + +At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted also refresh +themselves; at thy look even the wavering become steady and heal their +hearts. + +And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree do many eyes turn to-day; +a great longing hath arisen, and many have learned to ask: ‘Who is +Zarathustra?’ + +And those into whose ears thou hast at any time dripped thy song and thy +honey: all the hidden ones, the lone-dwellers and the twain-dwellers, +have simultaneously said to their hearts: + +‘Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer worth while to live, +everything is indifferent, everything is useless: or else—we must live +with Zarathustra!’ + +‘Why doth he not come who hath so long announced himself?’ thus do many +people ask; ‘hath solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps go to +him?’ + +Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself becometh fragile and +breaketh open, like a grave that breaketh open and can no longer hold +its dead. Everywhere one seeth resurrected ones. + +Now do the waves rise and rise around thy mountain, O Zarathustra. And +however high be thy height, many of them must rise up to thee: thy boat +shall not rest much longer on dry ground. + +And that we despairing ones have now come into thy cave, and already no +longer despair:—it is but a prognostic and a presage that better ones +are on the way to thee,— + +—For they themselves are on the way to thee, the last remnant of +God among men—that is to say, all the men of great longing, of great +loathing, of great satiety, + +—All who do not want to live unless they learn again to HOPE—unless +they learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the GREAT hope!” + +Thus spake the king on the right, and seized the hand of Zarathustra in +order to kiss it; but Zarathustra checked his veneration, and stepped +back frightened, fleeing as it were, silently and suddenly into the far +distance. After a little while, however, he was again at home with his +guests, looked at them with clear scrutinising eyes, and said: + +“My guests, ye higher men, I will speak plain language and plainly with +you. It is not for YOU that I have waited here in these mountains.” + +(“‘Plain language and plainly?’ Good God!” said here the king on the +left to himself; “one seeth he doth not know the good Occidentals, this +sage out of the Orient! + +But he meaneth ‘blunt language and bluntly’—well! That is not the worst +taste in these days!”) + +“Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men,” continued Zarathustra; “but +for me—ye are neither high enough, nor strong enough. + +For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which is now silent in me, +but will not always be silent. And if ye appertain to me, still it is +not as my right arm. + +For he who himself standeth, like you, on sickly and tender legs, +wisheth above all to be TREATED INDULGENTLY, whether he be conscious of +it or hide it from himself. + +My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat indulgently, I DO NOT TREAT +MY WARRIORS INDULGENTLY: how then could ye be fit for MY warfare? + +With you I should spoil all my victories. And many of you would tumble +over if ye but heard the loud beating of my drums. + +Moreover, ye are not sufficiently beautiful and well-born for me. I +require pure, smooth mirrors for my doctrines; on your surface even mine +own likeness is distorted. + +On your shoulders presseth many a burden, many a recollection; many a +mischievous dwarf squatteth in your corners. There is concealed populace +also in you. + +And though ye be high and of a higher type, much in you is crooked and +misshapen. There is no smith in the world that could hammer you right +and straight for me. + +Ye are only bridges: may higher ones pass over upon you! Ye signify +steps: so do not upbraid him who ascendeth beyond you into HIS height! + +Out of your seed there may one day arise for me a genuine son and +perfect heir: but that time is distant. Ye yourselves are not those unto +whom my heritage and name belong. + +Not for you do I wait here in these mountains; not with you may I +descend for the last time. Ye have come unto me only as a presage that +higher ones are on the way to me,— + +—NOT the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety, and +that which ye call the remnant of God; + +—Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For OTHERS do I wait here in these +mountains, and will not lift my foot from thence without them; + +—For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones, merrier ones, for +such as are built squarely in body and soul: LAUGHING LIONS must come! + +O my guests, ye strange ones—have ye yet heard nothing of my children? +And that they are on the way to me? + +Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy Isles, of my new beautiful +race—why do ye not speak unto me thereof? + +This guests’-present do I solicit of your love, that ye speak unto me of +my children. For them am I rich, for them I became poor: what have I not +surrendered, + +—What would I not surrender that I might have one thing: THESE +children, THIS living plantation, THESE life-trees of my will and of my +highest hope!” + +Thus spake Zarathustra, and stopped suddenly in his discourse: for his +longing came over him, and he closed his eyes and his mouth, because +of the agitation of his heart. And all his guests also were silent, and +stood still and confounded: except only that the old soothsayer made +signs with his hands and his gestures. + + + + +LXXII. THE SUPPER. + + +For at this point the soothsayer interrupted the greeting of Zarathustra +and his guests: he pressed forward as one who had no time to lose, +seized Zarathustra’s hand and exclaimed: “But Zarathustra! + +One thing is more necessary than the other, so sayest thou thyself: +well, one thing is now more necessary UNTO ME than all others. + +A word at the right time: didst thou not invite me to TABLE? And here +are many who have made long journeys. Thou dost not mean to feed us +merely with discourses? + +Besides, all of you have thought too much about freezing, drowning, +suffocating, and other bodily dangers: none of you, however, have +thought of MY danger, namely, perishing of hunger—” + +(Thus spake the soothsayer. When Zarathustra’s animals, however, heard +these words, they ran away in terror. For they saw that all they +had brought home during the day would not be enough to fill the one +soothsayer.) + +“Likewise perishing of thirst,” continued the soothsayer. “And although +I hear water splashing here like words of wisdom—that is to say, +plenteously and unweariedly, I—want WINE! + +Not every one is a born water-drinker like Zarathustra. Neither doth +water suit weary and withered ones: WE deserve wine—IT alone giveth +immediate vigour and improvised health!” + +On this occasion, when the soothsayer was longing for wine, it happened +that the king on the left, the silent one, also found expression for +once. “WE took care,” said he, “about wine, I, along with my brother the +king on the right: we have enough of wine,—a whole ass-load of it. So +there is nothing lacking but bread.” + +“Bread,” replied Zarathustra, laughing when he spake, “it is precisely +bread that anchorites have not. But man doth not live by bread alone, +but also by the flesh of good lambs, of which I have two: + +—THESE shall we slaughter quickly, and cook spicily with sage: it is +so that I like them. And there is also no lack of roots and fruits, +good enough even for the fastidious and dainty,—nor of nuts and other +riddles for cracking. + +Thus will we have a good repast in a little while. But whoever wish to +eat with us must also give a hand to the work, even the kings. For with +Zarathustra even a king may be a cook.” + +This proposal appealed to the hearts of all of them, save that the +voluntary beggar objected to the flesh and wine and spices. + +“Just hear this glutton Zarathustra!” said he jokingly: “doth one go +into caves and high mountains to make such repasts? + +Now indeed do I understand what he once taught us: Blessed be moderate +poverty!’ And why he wisheth to do away with beggars.” + +“Be of good cheer,” replied Zarathustra, “as I am. Abide by thy +customs, thou excellent one: grind thy corn, drink thy water, praise thy +cooking,—if only it make thee glad! + +I am a law only for mine own; I am not a law for all. He, however, who +belongeth unto me must be strong of bone and light of foot,— + +—Joyous in fight and feast, no sulker, no John o’ Dreams, ready for the +hardest task as for the feast, healthy and hale. + +The best belongeth unto mine and me; and if it be not given us, then do +we take it:—the best food, the purest sky, the strongest thoughts, the +fairest women!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra; the king on the right however answered and said: +“Strange! Did one ever hear such sensible things out of the mouth of a +wise man? + +And verily, it is the strangest thing in a wise man, if over and above, +he be still sensible, and not an ass.” + +Thus spake the king on the right and wondered; the ass however, with +ill-will, said YE-A to his remark. This however was the beginning of +that long repast which is called “The Supper” in the history-books. At +this there was nothing else spoken of but THE HIGHER MAN. + + + + +LXXIII. THE HIGHER MAN. + + +1. + +When I came unto men for the first time, then did I commit the anchorite +folly, the great folly: I appeared on the market-place. + +And when I spake unto all, I spake unto none. In the evening, however, +rope-dancers were my companions, and corpses; and I myself almost a +corpse. + +With the new morning, however, there came unto me a new truth: then did +I learn to say: “Of what account to me are market-place and populace and +populace-noise and long populace-ears!” + +Ye higher men, learn THIS from me: On the market-place no one believeth +in higher men. But if ye will speak there, very well! The populace, +however, blinketh: “We are all equal.” + +“Ye higher men,”—so blinketh the populace—“there are no higher men, we +are all equal; man is man, before God—we are all equal!” + +Before God!—Now, however, this God hath died. Before the populace, +however, we will not be equal. Ye higher men, away from the +market-place! + +2. + +Before God!—Now however this God hath died! Ye higher men, this God was +your greatest danger. + +Only since he lay in the grave have ye again arisen. Now only cometh the +great noontide, now only doth the higher man become—master! + +Have ye understood this word, O my brethren? Ye are frightened: do your +hearts turn giddy? Doth the abyss here yawn for you? Doth the hell-hound +here yelp at you? + +Well! Take heart! ye higher men! Now only travaileth the mountain of the +human future. God hath died: now do WE desire—the Superman to live. + +3. + +The most careful ask to-day: “How is man to be maintained?” Zarathustra +however asketh, as the first and only one: “How is man to be SURPASSED?” + +The Superman, I have at heart; THAT is the first and only thing to +me—and NOT man: not the neighbour, not the poorest, not the sorriest, +not the best.— + +O my brethren, what I can love in man is that he is an over-going and a +down-going. And also in you there is much that maketh me love and hope. + +In that ye have despised, ye higher men, that maketh me hope. For the +great despisers are the great reverers. + +In that ye have despaired, there is much to honour. For ye have not +learned to submit yourselves, ye have not learned petty policy. + +For to-day have the petty people become master: they all preach +submission and humility and policy and diligence and consideration and +the long et cetera of petty virtues. + +Whatever is of the effeminate type, whatever originateth from the +servile type, and especially the populace-mishmash:—THAT wisheth now to +be master of all human destiny—O disgust! Disgust! Disgust! + +THAT asketh and asketh and never tireth: “How is man to maintain himself +best, longest, most pleasantly?” Thereby—are they the masters of +to-day. + +These masters of to-day—surpass them, O my brethren—these petty +people: THEY are the Superman’s greatest danger! + +Surpass, ye higher men, the petty virtues, the petty policy, the +sand-grain considerateness, the ant-hill trumpery, the pitiable +comfortableness, the “happiness of the greatest number”—! + +And rather despair than submit yourselves. And verily, I love you, +because ye know not to-day how to live, ye higher men! For thus do YE +live—best! + +4. + +Have ye courage, O my brethren? Are ye stout-hearted? NOT the courage +before witnesses, but anchorite and eagle courage, which not even a God +any longer beholdeth? + +Cold souls, mules, the blind and the drunken, I do not call +stout-hearted. He hath heart who knoweth fear, but VANQUISHETH it; who +seeth the abyss, but with PRIDE. + +He who seeth the abyss, but with eagle’s eyes,—he who with eagle’s +talons GRASPETH the abyss: he hath courage.— + +5. + +“Man is evil”—so said to me for consolation, all the wisest ones. Ah, +if only it be still true to-day! For the evil is man’s best force. + +“Man must become better and eviler”—so do _I_ teach. The evilest is +necessary for the Superman’s best. + +It may have been well for the preacher of the petty people to suffer and +be burdened by men’s sin. I, however, rejoice in great sin as my great +CONSOLATION.— + +Such things, however, are not said for long ears. Every word, also, +is not suited for every mouth. These are fine far-away things: at them +sheep’s claws shall not grasp! + +6. + +Ye higher men, think ye that I am here to put right what ye have put +wrong? + +Or that I wished henceforth to make snugger couches for you sufferers? +Or show you restless, miswandering, misclimbing ones, new and easier +footpaths? + +Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! Always more, always better ones of your +type shall succumb,—for ye shall always have it worse and harder. Thus +only— + +—Thus only groweth man aloft to the height where the lightning striketh +and shattereth him: high enough for the lightning! + +Towards the few, the long, the remote go forth my soul and my seeking: +of what account to me are your many little, short miseries! + +Ye do not yet suffer enough for me! For ye suffer from yourselves, ye +have not yet suffered FROM MAN. Ye would lie if ye spake otherwise! None +of you suffereth from what _I_ have suffered.— + +7. + +It is not enough for me that the lightning no longer doeth harm. I do +not wish to conduct it away: it shall learn—to work for ME.— + +My wisdom hath accumulated long like a cloud, it becometh stiller and +darker. So doeth all wisdom which shall one day bear LIGHTNINGS.— + +Unto these men of to-day will I not be LIGHT, nor be called light. +THEM—will I blind: lightning of my wisdom! put out their eyes! + +8. + +Do not will anything beyond your power: there is a bad falseness in +those who will beyond their power. + +Especially when they will great things! For they awaken distrust in +great things, these subtle false-coiners and stage-players:— + +—Until at last they are false towards themselves, squint-eyed, whited +cankers, glossed over with strong words, parade virtues and brilliant +false deeds. + +Take good care there, ye higher men! For nothing is more precious to me, +and rarer, than honesty. + +Is this to-day not that of the populace? The populace however knoweth +not what is great and what is small, what is straight and what is +honest: it is innocently crooked, it ever lieth. + +9. + +Have a good distrust to-day ye, higher men, ye enheartened ones! Ye +open-hearted ones! And keep your reasons secret! For this to-day is that +of the populace. + +What the populace once learned to believe without reasons, who could— +refute it to them by means of reasons? + +And on the market-place one convinceth with gestures. But reasons make +the populace distrustful. + +And when truth hath once triumphed there, then ask yourselves with good +distrust: “What strong error hath fought for it?” + +Be on your guard also against the learned! They hate you, because they +are unproductive! They have cold, withered eyes before which every bird +is unplumed. + +Such persons vaunt about not lying: but inability to lie is still far +from being love to truth. Be on your guard! + +Freedom from fever is still far from being knowledge! Refrigerated +spirits I do not believe in. He who cannot lie, doth not know what truth +is. + +10. + +If ye would go up high, then use your own legs! Do not get yourselves +CARRIED aloft; do not seat yourselves on other people’s backs and heads! + +Thou hast mounted, however, on horseback? Thou now ridest briskly up +to thy goal? Well, my friend! But thy lame foot is also with thee on +horseback! + +When thou reachest thy goal, when thou alightest from thy horse: +precisely on thy HEIGHT, thou higher man,—then wilt thou stumble! + +11. + +Ye creating ones, ye higher men! One is only pregnant with one’s own +child. + +Do not let yourselves be imposed upon or put upon! Who then is YOUR +neighbour? Even if ye act “for your neighbour”—ye still do not create +for him! + +Unlearn, I pray you, this “for,” ye creating ones: your very virtue +wisheth you to have naught to do with “for” and “on account of” and +“because.” Against these false little words shall ye stop your ears. + +“For one’s neighbour,” is the virtue only of the petty people: there it +is said “like and like,” and “hand washeth hand”:—they have neither the +right nor the power for YOUR self-seeking! + +In your self-seeking, ye creating ones, there is the foresight and +foreseeing of the pregnant! What no one’s eye hath yet seen, namely, the +fruit—this, sheltereth and saveth and nourisheth your entire love. + +Where your entire love is, namely, with your child, there is also your +entire virtue! Your work, your will is YOUR “neighbour”: let no false +values impose upon you! + +12. + +Ye creating ones, ye higher men! Whoever hath to give birth is sick; +whoever hath given birth, however, is unclean. + +Ask women: one giveth birth, not because it giveth pleasure. The pain +maketh hens and poets cackle. + +Ye creating ones, in you there is much uncleanliness. That is because ye +have had to be mothers. + +A new child: oh, how much new filth hath also come into the world! Go +apart! He who hath given birth shall wash his soul! + +13. + +Be not virtuous beyond your powers! And seek nothing from yourselves +opposed to probability! + +Walk in the footsteps in which your fathers’ virtue hath already walked! +How would ye rise high, if your fathers’ will should not rise with you? + +He, however, who would be a firstling, let him take care lest he also +become a lastling! And where the vices of your fathers are, there should +ye not set up as saints! + +He whose fathers were inclined for women, and for strong wine and flesh +of wildboar swine; what would it be if he demanded chastity of himself? + +A folly would it be! Much, verily, doth it seem to me for such a one, if +he should be the husband of one or of two or of three women. + +And if he founded monasteries, and inscribed over their portals: “The +way to holiness,”—I should still say: What good is it! it is a new +folly! + +He hath founded for himself a penance-house and refuge-house: much good +may it do! But I do not believe in it. + +In solitude there groweth what any one bringeth into it—also the brute +in one’s nature. Thus is solitude inadvisable unto many. + +Hath there ever been anything filthier on earth than the saints of +the wilderness? AROUND THEM was not only the devil loose—but also the +swine. + +14. + +Shy, ashamed, awkward, like the tiger whose spring hath failed—thus, ye +higher men, have I often seen you slink aside. A CAST which ye made had +failed. + +But what doth it matter, ye dice-players! Ye had not learned to play and +mock, as one must play and mock! Do we not ever sit at a great table of +mocking and playing? + +And if great things have been a failure with you, have ye yourselves +therefore—been a failure? And if ye yourselves have been a failure, +hath man therefore—been a failure? If man, however, hath been a +failure: well then! never mind! + +15. + +The higher its type, always the seldomer doth a thing succeed. Ye higher +men here, have ye not all—been failures? + +Be of good cheer; what doth it matter? How much is still possible! Learn +to laugh at yourselves, as ye ought to laugh! + +What wonder even that ye have failed and only half-succeeded, ye +half-shattered ones! Doth not—man’s FUTURE strive and struggle in you? + +Man’s furthest, profoundest, star-highest issues, his prodigious +powers—do not all these foam through one another in your vessel? + +What wonder that many a vessel shattereth! Learn to laugh at yourselves, +as ye ought to laugh! Ye higher men, O, how much is still possible! + +And verily, how much hath already succeeded! How rich is this earth in +small, good, perfect things, in well-constituted things! + +Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye higher men. Their golden +maturity healeth the heart. The perfect teacheth one to hope. + +16. + +What hath hitherto been the greatest sin here on earth? Was it not the +word of him who said: “Woe unto them that laugh now!” + +Did he himself find no cause for laughter on the earth? Then he sought +badly. A child even findeth cause for it. + +He—did not love sufficiently: otherwise would he also have loved +us, the laughing ones! But he hated and hooted us; wailing and +teeth-gnashing did he promise us. + +Must one then curse immediately, when one doth not love? That—seemeth +to me bad taste. Thus did he, however, this absolute one. He sprang from +the populace. + +And he himself just did not love sufficiently; otherwise would he have +raged less because people did not love him. All great love doth not SEEK +love:—it seeketh more. + +Go out of the way of all such absolute ones! They are a poor sickly +type, a populace-type: they look at this life with ill-will, they have +an evil eye for this earth. + +Go out of the way of all such absolute ones! They have heavy feet and +sultry hearts:—they do not know how to dance. How could the earth be +light to such ones! + +17. + +Tortuously do all good things come nigh to their goal. Like cats +they curve their backs, they purr inwardly with their approaching +happiness,—all good things laugh. + +His step betrayeth whether a person already walketh on HIS OWN path: +just see me walk! He, however, who cometh nigh to his goal, danceth. + +And verily, a statue have I not become, not yet do I stand there stiff, +stupid and stony, like a pillar; I love fast racing. + +And though there be on earth fens and dense afflictions, he who hath +light feet runneth even across the mud, and danceth, as upon well-swept +ice. + +Lift up your hearts, my brethren, high, higher! And do not forget your +legs! Lift up also your legs, ye good dancers, and better still, if ye +stand upon your heads! + +18. + +This crown of the laughter, this rose-garland crown: I myself have put +on this crown, I myself have consecrated my laughter. No one else have I +found to-day potent enough for this. + +Zarathustra the dancer, Zarathustra the light one, who beckoneth with +his pinions, one ready for flight, beckoning unto all birds, ready and +prepared, a blissfully light-spirited one:— + +Zarathustra the soothsayer, Zarathustra the sooth-laugher, no impatient +one, no absolute one, one who loveth leaps and side-leaps; I myself have +put on this crown! + +19. + +Lift up your hearts, my brethren, high, higher! And do not forget your +legs! Lift up also your legs, ye good dancers, and better still if ye +stand upon your heads! + +There are also heavy animals in a state of happiness, there are +club-footed ones from the beginning. Curiously do they exert themselves, +like an elephant which endeavoureth to stand upon its head. + +Better, however, to be foolish with happiness than foolish with +misfortune, better to dance awkwardly than walk lamely. So learn, I +pray you, my wisdom, ye higher men: even the worst thing hath two good +reverse sides,— + +—Even the worst thing hath good dancing-legs: so learn, I pray you, ye +higher men, to put yourselves on your proper legs! + +So unlearn, I pray you, the sorrow-sighing, and all the +populace-sadness! Oh, how sad the buffoons of the populace seem to me +to-day! This to-day, however, is that of the populace. + +20. + +Do like unto the wind when it rusheth forth from its mountain-caves: +unto its own piping will it dance; the seas tremble and leap under its +footsteps. + +That which giveth wings to asses, that which milketh the lionesses:— +praised be that good, unruly spirit, which cometh like a hurricane unto +all the present and unto all the populace,— + +—Which is hostile to thistle-heads and puzzle-heads, and to all +withered leaves and weeds:—praised be this wild, good, free spirit of +the storm, which danceth upon fens and afflictions, as upon meadows! + +Which hateth the consumptive populace-dogs, and all the ill-constituted, +sullen brood:—praised be this spirit of all free spirits, the laughing +storm, which bloweth dust into the eyes of all the melanopic and +melancholic! + +Ye higher men, the worst thing in you is that ye have none of you +learned to dance as ye ought to dance—to dance beyond yourselves! What +doth it matter that ye have failed! + +How many things are still possible! So LEARN to laugh beyond yourselves! +Lift up your hearts, ye good dancers, high! higher! And do not forget +the good laughter! + +This crown of the laughter, this rose-garland crown: to you my brethren +do I cast this crown! Laughing have I consecrated; ye higher men, LEARN, +I pray you—to laugh! + + + + +LXXIV. THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY. + + +1. + +When Zarathustra spake these sayings, he stood nigh to the entrance of +his cave; with the last words, however, he slipped away from his guests, +and fled for a little while into the open air. + +“O pure odours around me,” cried he, “O blessed stillness around me! But +where are mine animals? Hither, hither, mine eagle and my serpent! + +Tell me, mine animals: these higher men, all of them—do they perhaps +not SMELL well? O pure odours around me! Now only do I know and feel how +I love you, mine animals.” + +—And Zarathustra said once more: “I love you, mine animals!” The eagle, +however, and the serpent pressed close to him when he spake these +words, and looked up to him. In this attitude were they all three silent +together, and sniffed and sipped the good air with one another. For the +air here outside was better than with the higher men. + +2. + +Hardly, however, had Zarathustra left the cave when the old magician got +up, looked cunningly about him, and said: “He is gone! + +And already, ye higher men—let me tickle you with this complimentary +and flattering name, as he himself doeth—already doth mine evil spirit +of deceit and magic attack me, my melancholy devil, + +—Which is an adversary to this Zarathustra from the very heart: forgive +it for this! Now doth it wish to conjure before you, it hath just ITS +hour; in vain do I struggle with this evil spirit. + +Unto all of you, whatever honours ye like to assume in your names, +whether ye call yourselves ‘the free spirits’ or ‘the conscientious,’ +or ‘the penitents of the spirit,’ or ‘the unfettered,’ or ‘the great +longers,’— + +—Unto all of you, who like me suffer FROM THE GREAT LOATHING, to +whom the old God hath died, and as yet no new God lieth in cradles and +swaddling clothes—unto all of you is mine evil spirit and magic-devil +favourable. + +I know you, ye higher men, I know him,—I know also this fiend whom I +love in spite of me, this Zarathustra: he himself often seemeth to me +like the beautiful mask of a saint, + +—Like a new strange mummery in which mine evil spirit, the melancholy +devil, delighteth:—I love Zarathustra, so doth it often seem to me, for +the sake of mine evil spirit.— + +But already doth IT attack me and constrain me, this spirit of +melancholy, this evening-twilight devil: and verily, ye higher men, it +hath a longing— + +—Open your eyes!—it hath a longing to come NAKED, whether male or +female, I do not yet know: but it cometh, it constraineth me, alas! open +your wits! + +The day dieth out, unto all things cometh now the evening, also unto +the best things; hear now, and see, ye higher men, what devil—man or +woman—this spirit of evening-melancholy is!” + +Thus spake the old magician, looked cunningly about him, and then seized +his harp. + +3. + + In evening’s limpid air, + What time the dew’s soothings + Unto the earth downpour, + Invisibly and unheard— + For tender shoe-gear wear + The soothing dews, like all that’s kind-gentle—: + Bethinkst thou then, bethinkst thou, burning heart, + How once thou thirstedest + For heaven’s kindly teardrops and dew’s down-droppings, + All singed and weary thirstedest, + What time on yellow grass-pathways + Wicked, occidental sunny glances + Through sombre trees about thee sported, + Blindingly sunny glow-glances, gladly-hurting? + + “Of TRUTH the wooer? Thou?”—so taunted they— + “Nay! Merely poet! + A brute insidious, plundering, grovelling, + That aye must lie, + That wittingly, wilfully, aye must lie: + For booty lusting, + Motley masked, + Self-hidden, shrouded, + Himself his booty— + HE—of truth the wooer? + Nay! Mere fool! Mere poet! + Just motley speaking, + From mask of fool confusedly shouting, + Circumambling on fabricated word-bridges, + On motley rainbow-arches, + ‘Twixt the spurious heavenly, + And spurious earthly, + Round us roving, round us soaring,— + MERE FOOL! MERE POET! + + HE—of truth the wooer? + Not still, stiff, smooth and cold, + Become an image, + A godlike statue, + Set up in front of temples, + As a God’s own door-guard: + Nay! hostile to all such truthfulness-statues, + In every desert homelier than at temples, + With cattish wantonness, + Through every window leaping + Quickly into chances, + Every wild forest a-sniffing, + Greedily-longingly, sniffing, + That thou, in wild forests, + ’Mong the motley-speckled fierce creatures, + Shouldest rove, sinful-sound and fine-coloured, + With longing lips smacking, + Blessedly mocking, blessedly hellish, blessedly bloodthirsty, + Robbing, skulking, lying—roving:— + + Or unto eagles like which fixedly, + Long adown the precipice look, + Adown THEIR precipice:— + Oh, how they whirl down now, + Thereunder, therein, + To ever deeper profoundness whirling!— + Then, + Sudden, + With aim aright, + With quivering flight, + On LAMBKINS pouncing, + Headlong down, sore-hungry, + For lambkins longing, + Fierce ’gainst all lamb-spirits, + Furious-fierce ’gainst all that look + Sheeplike, or lambeyed, or crisp-woolly, + —Grey, with lambsheep kindliness! + + Even thus, + Eaglelike, pantherlike, + Are the poet’s desires, + Are THINE OWN desires ‘neath a thousand guises, + Thou fool! Thou poet! + Thou who all mankind viewedst— + So God, as sheep—: + The God TO REND within mankind, + As the sheep in mankind, + And in rending LAUGHING— + + THAT, THAT is thine own blessedness! + Of a panther and eagle—blessedness! + Of a poet and fool—the blessedness!— + + In evening’s limpid air, + What time the moon’s sickle, + Green, ‘twixt the purple-glowings, + And jealous, steal’th forth: + —Of day the foe, + With every step in secret, + The rosy garland-hammocks + Downsickling, till they’ve sunken + Down nightwards, faded, downsunken:— + + Thus had I sunken one day + From mine own truth-insanity, + From mine own fervid day-longings, + Of day aweary, sick of sunshine, + —Sunk downwards, evenwards, shadowwards: + By one sole trueness + All scorched and thirsty: + —Bethinkst thou still, bethinkst thou, burning heart, + How then thou thirstedest?— + THAT I SHOULD BANNED BE + FROM ALL THE TRUENESS! + MERE FOOL! MERE POET! + + + + +LXXV. SCIENCE. + + +Thus sang the magician; and all who were present went like birds +unawares into the net of his artful and melancholy voluptuousness. +Only the spiritually conscientious one had not been caught: he at once +snatched the harp from the magician and called out: “Air! Let in good +air! Let in Zarathustra! Thou makest this cave sultry and poisonous, +thou bad old magician! + +Thou seducest, thou false one, thou subtle one, to unknown desires and +deserts. And alas, that such as thou should talk and make ado about the +TRUTH! + +Alas, to all free spirits who are not on their guard against SUCH +magicians! It is all over with their freedom: thou teachest and temptest +back into prisons,— + +—Thou old melancholy devil, out of thy lament soundeth a lurement: thou +resemblest those who with their praise of chastity secretly invite to +voluptuousness!” + +Thus spake the conscientious one; the old magician, however, looked +about him, enjoying his triumph, and on that account put up with the +annoyance which the conscientious one caused him. “Be still!” said he +with modest voice, “good songs want to re-echo well; after good songs +one should be long silent. + +Thus do all those present, the higher men. Thou, however, hast perhaps +understood but little of my song? In thee there is little of the magic +spirit.” + +“Thou praisest me,” replied the conscientious one, “in that thou +separatest me from thyself; very well! But, ye others, what do I see? Ye +still sit there, all of you, with lusting eyes—: + +Ye free spirits, whither hath your freedom gone! Ye almost seem to me +to resemble those who have long looked at bad girls dancing naked: your +souls themselves dance! + +In you, ye higher men, there must be more of that which the magician +calleth his evil spirit of magic and deceit:—we must indeed be +different. + +And verily, we spake and thought long enough together ere Zarathustra +came home to his cave, for me not to be unaware that we ARE different. + +We SEEK different things even here aloft, ye and I. For I seek more +SECURITY; on that account have I come to Zarathustra. For he is still +the most steadfast tower and will— + +—To-day, when everything tottereth, when all the earth quaketh. Ye, +however, when I see what eyes ye make, it almost seemeth to me that ye +seek MORE INSECURITY, + +—More horror, more danger, more earthquake. Ye long (it almost seemeth +so to me—forgive my presumption, ye higher men)— + +—Ye long for the worst and dangerousest life, which frighteneth ME +most,—for the life of wild beasts, for forests, caves, steep mountains +and labyrinthine gorges. + +And it is not those who lead OUT OF danger that please you best, but +those who lead you away from all paths, the misleaders. But if +such longing in you be ACTUAL, it seemeth to me nevertheless to be +IMPOSSIBLE. + +For fear—that is man’s original and fundamental feeling; through fear +everything is explained, original sin and original virtue. Through fear +there grew also MY virtue, that is to say: Science. + +For fear of wild animals—that hath been longest fostered in +man, inclusive of the animal which he concealeth and feareth in +himself:—Zarathustra calleth it ‘the beast inside.’ + +Such prolonged ancient fear, at last become subtle, spiritual and +intellectual—at present, me thinketh, it is called SCIENCE.”— + +Thus spake the conscientious one; but Zarathustra, who had just come +back into his cave and had heard and divined the last discourse, threw a +handful of roses to the conscientious one, and laughed on account of +his “truths.” “Why!” he exclaimed, “what did I hear just now? Verily, it +seemeth to me, thou art a fool, or else I myself am one: and quietly and +quickly will I put thy ‘truth’ upside down. + +For FEAR—is an exception with us. Courage, however, and adventure, and +delight in the uncertain, in the unattempted—COURAGE seemeth to me the +entire primitive history of man. + +The wildest and most courageous animals hath he envied and robbed of all +their virtues: thus only did he become—man. + +THIS courage, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual, this +human courage, with eagle’s pinions and serpent’s wisdom: THIS, it +seemeth to me, is called at present—” + +“ZARATHUSTRA!” cried all of them there assembled, as if with one voice, +and burst out at the same time into a great laughter; there arose, +however, from them as it were a heavy cloud. Even the magician laughed, +and said wisely: “Well! It is gone, mine evil spirit! + +And did I not myself warn you against it when I said that it was a +deceiver, a lying and deceiving spirit? + +Especially when it showeth itself naked. But what can _I_ do with regard +to its tricks! Have _I_ created it and the world? + +Well! Let us be good again, and of good cheer! And although Zarathustra +looketh with evil eye—just see him! he disliketh me—: + +—Ere night cometh will he again learn to love and laud me; he cannot +live long without committing such follies. + +HE—loveth his enemies: this art knoweth he better than any one I have +seen. But he taketh revenge for it—on his friends!” + +Thus spake the old magician, and the higher men applauded him; so that +Zarathustra went round, and mischievously and lovingly shook hands with +his friends,—like one who hath to make amends and apologise to every +one for something. When however he had thereby come to the door of his +cave, lo, then had he again a longing for the good air outside, and for +his animals,—and wished to steal out. + + + + +LXXVI. AMONG DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT. + + +1. + +“Go not away!” said then the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s +shadow, “abide with us—otherwise the old gloomy affliction might again +fall upon us. + +Now hath that old magician given us of his worst for our good, and +lo! the good, pious pope there hath tears in his eyes, and hath quite +embarked again upon the sea of melancholy. + +Those kings may well put on a good air before us still: for that have +THEY learned best of us all at present! Had they however no one to see +them, I wager that with them also the bad game would again commence,— + +—The bad game of drifting clouds, of damp melancholy, of curtained +heavens, of stolen suns, of howling autumn-winds, + +—The bad game of our howling and crying for help! Abide with us, O +Zarathustra! Here there is much concealed misery that wisheth to speak, +much evening, much cloud, much damp air! + +Thou hast nourished us with strong food for men, and powerful proverbs: +do not let the weakly, womanly spirits attack us anew at dessert! + +Thou alone makest the air around thee strong and clear! Did I ever find +anywhere on earth such good air as with thee in thy cave? + +Many lands have I seen, my nose hath learned to test and estimate many +kinds of air: but with thee do my nostrils taste their greatest delight! + +Unless it be,—unless it be—, do forgive an old recollection! Forgive +me an old after-dinner song, which I once composed amongst daughters of +the desert:— + +For with them was there equally good, clear, Oriental air; there was I +furthest from cloudy, damp, melancholy Old-Europe! + +Then did I love such Oriental maidens and other blue kingdoms of heaven, +over which hang no clouds and no thoughts. + +Ye would not believe how charmingly they sat there, when they did +not dance, profound, but without thoughts, like little secrets, like +beribboned riddles, like dessert-nuts— + +Many-hued and foreign, forsooth! but without clouds: riddles which +can be guessed: to please such maidens I then composed an after-dinner +psalm.” + +Thus spake the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s shadow; and +before any one answered him, he had seized the harp of the old magician, +crossed his legs, and looked calmly and sagely around him:—with his +nostrils, however, he inhaled the air slowly and questioningly, like one +who in new countries tasteth new foreign air. Afterward he began to sing +with a kind of roaring. + +2. + +THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE! + + —Ha! + Solemnly! + In effect solemnly! + A worthy beginning! + Afric manner, solemnly! + Of a lion worthy, + Or perhaps of a virtuous howl-monkey— + —But it’s naught to you, + Ye friendly damsels dearly loved, + At whose own feet to me, + The first occasion, + To a European under palm-trees, + A seat is now granted. Selah. + + Wonderful, truly! + Here do I sit now, + The desert nigh, and yet I am + So far still from the desert, + Even in naught yet deserted: + That is, I’m swallowed down + By this the smallest oasis—: + —It opened up just yawning, + Its loveliest mouth agape, + Most sweet-odoured of all mouthlets: + Then fell I right in, + Right down, right through—in ’mong you, + Ye friendly damsels dearly loved! Selah. + + Hail! hail! to that whale, fishlike, + If it thus for its guest’s convenience + Made things nice!—(ye well know, + Surely, my learned allusion?) + Hail to its belly, + If it had e’er + A such loveliest oasis-belly + As this is: though however I doubt about it, + —With this come I out of Old-Europe, + That doubt’th more eagerly than doth any + Elderly married woman. + May the Lord improve it! + Amen! + + Here do I sit now, + In this the smallest oasis, + Like a date indeed, + Brown, quite sweet, gold-suppurating, + For rounded mouth of maiden longing, + But yet still more for youthful, maidlike, + Ice-cold and snow-white and incisory + Front teeth: and for such assuredly, + Pine the hearts all of ardent date-fruits. Selah. + + To the there-named south-fruits now, + Similar, all-too-similar, + Do I lie here; by little + Flying insects + Round-sniffled and round-played, + And also by yet littler, + Foolisher, and peccabler + Wishes and phantasies,— + Environed by you, + Ye silent, presentientest + Maiden-kittens, + Dudu and Suleika, + —ROUNDSPHINXED, that into one word + I may crowd much feeling: + (Forgive me, O God, + All such speech-sinning!) + —Sit I here the best of air sniffling, + Paradisal air, truly, + Bright and buoyant air, golden-mottled, + As goodly air as ever + From lunar orb downfell— + Be it by hazard, + Or supervened it by arrogancy? + As the ancient poets relate it. + But doubter, I’m now calling it + In question: with this do I come indeed + Out of Europe, + That doubt’th more eagerly than doth any + Elderly married woman. + May the Lord improve it! + Amen. + + This the finest air drinking, + With nostrils out-swelled like goblets, + Lacking future, lacking remembrances + Thus do I sit here, ye + Friendly damsels dearly loved, + And look at the palm-tree there, + How it, to a dance-girl, like, + Doth bow and bend and on its haunches bob, + —One doth it too, when one view’th it long!— + To a dance-girl like, who as it seem’th to me, + Too long, and dangerously persistent, + Always, always, just on SINGLE leg hath stood? + —Then forgot she thereby, as it seem’th to me, + The OTHER leg? + For vainly I, at least, + Did search for the amissing + Fellow-jewel + —Namely, the other leg— + In the sanctified precincts, + Nigh her very dearest, very tenderest, + Flapping and fluttering and flickering skirting. + Yea, if ye should, ye beauteous friendly ones, + Quite take my word: + She hath, alas! LOST it! + Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu! + It is away! + For ever away! + The other leg! + Oh, pity for that loveliest other leg! + Where may it now tarry, all-forsaken weeping? + The lonesomest leg? + In fear perhaps before a + Furious, yellow, blond and curled + Leonine monster? Or perhaps even + Gnawed away, nibbled badly— + Most wretched, woeful! woeful! nibbled badly! Selah. + + Oh, weep ye not, + Gentle spirits! + Weep ye not, ye + Date-fruit spirits! Milk-bosoms! + Ye sweetwood-heart + Purselets! + Weep ye no more, + Pallid Dudu! + Be a man, Suleika! Bold! Bold! + —Or else should there perhaps + Something strengthening, heart-strengthening, + Here most proper be? + Some inspiring text? + Some solemn exhortation?— + Ha! Up now! honour! + Moral honour! European honour! + Blow again, continue, + Bellows-box of virtue! + Ha! + Once more thy roaring, + Thy moral roaring! + As a virtuous lion + Nigh the daughters of deserts roaring! + —For virtue’s out-howl, + Ye very dearest maidens, + Is more than every + European fervour, European hot-hunger! + And now do I stand here, + As European, + I can’t be different, God’s help to me! + Amen! + +THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE! + + + + +LXXVII. THE AWAKENING. + + +1. + +After the song of the wanderer and shadow, the cave became all at once +full of noise and laughter: and since the assembled guests all spake +simultaneously, and even the ass, encouraged thereby, no longer +remained silent, a little aversion and scorn for his visitors came over +Zarathustra, although he rejoiced at their gladness. For it seemed to +him a sign of convalescence. So he slipped out into the open air and +spake to his animals. + +“Whither hath their distress now gone?” said he, and already did he +himself feel relieved of his petty disgust—“with me, it seemeth that +they have unlearned their cries of distress! + +—Though, alas! not yet their crying.” And Zarathustra stopped his +ears, for just then did the YE-A of the ass mix strangely with the noisy +jubilation of those higher men. + +“They are merry,” he began again, “and who knoweth? perhaps at their +host’s expense; and if they have learned of me to laugh, still it is not +MY laughter they have learned. + +But what matter about that! They are old people: they recover in their +own way, they laugh in their own way; mine ears have already endured +worse and have not become peevish. + +This day is a victory: he already yieldeth, he fleeth, THE SPIRIT OF +GRAVITY, mine old arch-enemy! How well this day is about to end, which +began so badly and gloomily! + +And it is ABOUT TO end. Already cometh the evening: over the sea +rideth it hither, the good rider! How it bobbeth, the blessed one, the +home-returning one, in its purple saddles! + +The sky gazeth brightly thereon, the world lieth deep. Oh, all ye +strange ones who have come to me, it is already worth while to have +lived with me!” + +Thus spake Zarathustra. And again came the cries and laughter of the +higher men out of the cave: then began he anew: + +“They bite at it, my bait taketh, there departeth also from them their +enemy, the spirit of gravity. Now do they learn to laugh at themselves: +do I hear rightly? + +My virile food taketh effect, my strong and savoury sayings: and verily, +I did not nourish them with flatulent vegetables! But with warrior-food, +with conqueror-food: new desires did I awaken. + +New hopes are in their arms and legs, their hearts expand. They find new +words, soon will their spirits breathe wantonness. + +Such food may sure enough not be proper for children, nor even for +longing girls old and young. One persuadeth their bowels otherwise; I am +not their physician and teacher. + +The DISGUST departeth from these higher men; well! that is my victory. +In my domain they become assured; all stupid shame fleeth away; they +empty themselves. + +They empty their hearts, good times return unto them, they keep holiday +and ruminate,—they become THANKFUL. + +THAT do I take as the best sign: they become thankful. Not long will it +be ere they devise festivals, and put up memorials to their old joys. + +They are CONVALESCENTS!” Thus spake Zarathustra joyfully to his heart +and gazed outward; his animals, however, pressed up to him, and honoured +his happiness and his silence. + +2. + +All on a sudden however, Zarathustra’s ear was frightened: for the cave +which had hitherto been full of noise and laughter, became all at once +still as death;—his nose, however, smelt a sweet-scented vapour and +incense-odour, as if from burning pine-cones. + +“What happeneth? What are they about?” he asked himself, and stole up +to the entrance, that he might be able unobserved to see his guests. +But wonder upon wonder! what was he then obliged to behold with his own +eyes! + +“They have all of them become PIOUS again, they PRAY, they are +mad!”—said he, and was astonished beyond measure. And forsooth! all +these higher men, the two kings, the pope out of service, the evil +magician, the voluntary beggar, the wanderer and shadow, the old +soothsayer, the spiritually conscientious one, and the ugliest man—they +all lay on their knees like children and credulous old women, and +worshipped the ass. And just then began the ugliest man to gurgle and +snort, as if something unutterable in him tried to find expression; +when, however, he had actually found words, behold! it was a pious, +strange litany in praise of the adored and censed ass. And the litany +sounded thus: + +Amen! And glory and honour and wisdom and thanks and praise and strength +be to our God, from everlasting to everlasting! + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + +He carrieth our burdens, he hath taken upon him the form of a servant, +he is patient of heart and never saith Nay; and he who loveth his God +chastiseth him. + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + +He speaketh not: except that he ever saith Yea to the world which +he created: thus doth he extol his world. It is his artfulness that +speaketh not: thus is he rarely found wrong. + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + +Uncomely goeth he through the world. Grey is the favourite colour in +which he wrappeth his virtue. Hath he spirit, then doth he conceal it; +every one, however, believeth in his long ears. + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + +What hidden wisdom it is to wear long ears, and only to say Yea and +never Nay! Hath he not created the world in his own image, namely, as +stupid as possible? + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + +Thou goest straight and crooked ways; it concerneth thee little what +seemeth straight or crooked unto us men. Beyond good and evil is thy +domain. It is thine innocence not to know what innocence is. + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + +Lo! how thou spurnest none from thee, neither beggars nor kings. Thou +sufferest little children to come unto thee, and when the bad boys decoy +thee, then sayest thou simply, YE-A. + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + +Thou lovest she-asses and fresh figs, thou art no food-despiser. A +thistle tickleth thy heart when thou chancest to be hungry. There is the +wisdom of a God therein. + +—The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + + + + +LXXVIII. THE ASS-FESTIVAL. + + +1. + +At this place in the litany, however, Zarathustra could no longer +control himself; he himself cried out YE-A, louder even than the ass, +and sprang into the midst of his maddened guests. “Whatever are you +about, ye grown-up children?” he exclaimed, pulling up the praying ones +from the ground. “Alas, if any one else, except Zarathustra, had seen +you: + +Every one would think you the worst blasphemers, or the very foolishest +old women, with your new belief! + +And thou thyself, thou old pope, how is it in accordance with thee, to +adore an ass in such a manner as God?”— + +“O Zarathustra,” answered the pope, “forgive me, but in divine matters +I am more enlightened even than thou. And it is right that it should be +so. + +Better to adore God so, in this form, than in no form at all! Think over +this saying, mine exalted friend: thou wilt readily divine that in such +a saying there is wisdom. + +He who said ‘God is a Spirit’—made the greatest stride and slide +hitherto made on earth towards unbelief: such a dictum is not easily +amended again on earth! + +Mine old heart leapeth and boundeth because there is still something +to adore on earth. Forgive it, O Zarathustra, to an old, pious +pontiff-heart!—” + +—“And thou,” said Zarathustra to the wanderer and shadow, “thou callest +and thinkest thyself a free spirit? And thou here practisest such +idolatry and hierolatry? + +Worse verily, doest thou here than with thy bad brown girls, thou bad, +new believer!” + +“It is sad enough,” answered the wanderer and shadow, “thou art right: +but how can I help it! The old God liveth again, O Zarathustra, thou +mayst say what thou wilt. + +The ugliest man is to blame for it all: he hath reawakened him. And +if he say that he once killed him, with Gods DEATH is always just a +prejudice.” + +—“And thou,” said Zarathustra, “thou bad old magician, what didst thou +do! Who ought to believe any longer in thee in this free age, when THOU +believest in such divine donkeyism? + +It was a stupid thing that thou didst; how couldst thou, a shrewd man, +do such a stupid thing!” + +“O Zarathustra,” answered the shrewd magician, “thou art right, it was a +stupid thing,—it was also repugnant to me.” + +—“And thou even,” said Zarathustra to the spiritually conscientious +one, “consider, and put thy finger to thy nose! Doth nothing go against +thy conscience here? Is thy spirit not too cleanly for this praying and +the fumes of those devotees?” + +“There is something therein,” said the spiritually conscientious one, +and put his finger to his nose, “there is something in this spectacle +which even doeth good to my conscience. + +Perhaps I dare not believe in God: certain it is however, that God +seemeth to me most worthy of belief in this form. + +God is said to be eternal, according to the testimony of the most pious: +he who hath so much time taketh his time. As slow and as stupid as +possible: THEREBY can such a one nevertheless go very far. + +And he who hath too much spirit might well become infatuated with +stupidity and folly. Think of thyself, O Zarathustra! + +Thou thyself—verily! even thou couldst well become an ass through +superabundance of wisdom. + +Doth not the true sage willingly walk on the crookedest paths? The +evidence teacheth it, O Zarathustra,—THINE OWN evidence!” + +—“And thou thyself, finally,” said Zarathustra, and turned towards the +ugliest man, who still lay on the ground stretching up his arm to the +ass (for he gave it wine to drink). “Say, thou nondescript, what hast +thou been about! + +Thou seemest to me transformed, thine eyes glow, the mantle of the +sublime covereth thine ugliness: WHAT didst thou do? + +Is it then true what they say, that thou hast again awakened him? And +why? Was he not for good reasons killed and made away with? + +Thou thyself seemest to me awakened: what didst thou do? why didst THOU +turn round? Why didst THOU get converted? Speak, thou nondescript!” + +“O Zarathustra,” answered the ugliest man, “thou art a rogue! + +Whether HE yet liveth, or again liveth, or is thoroughly dead—which of +us both knoweth that best? I ask thee. + +One thing however do I know,—from thyself did I learn it once, O +Zarathustra: he who wanteth to kill most thoroughly, LAUGHETH. + +‘Not by wrath but by laughter doth one kill’—thus spakest thou once, +O Zarathustra, thou hidden one, thou destroyer without wrath, thou +dangerous saint,—thou art a rogue!” + +2. + +Then, however, did it come to pass that Zarathustra, astonished at such +merely roguish answers, jumped back to the door of his cave, and turning +towards all his guests, cried out with a strong voice: + +“O ye wags, all of you, ye buffoons! Why do ye dissemble and disguise +yourselves before me! + +How the hearts of all of you convulsed with delight and wickedness, +because ye had at last become again like little children—namely, +pious,— + +—Because ye at last did again as children do—namely, prayed, folded +your hands and said ‘good God’! + +But now leave, I pray you, THIS nursery, mine own cave, where to-day +all childishness is carried on. Cool down, here outside, your hot +child-wantonness and heart-tumult! + +To be sure: except ye become as little children ye shall not enter into +THAT kingdom of heaven.” (And Zarathustra pointed aloft with his hands.) + +“But we do not at all want to enter into the kingdom of heaven: we have +become men,—SO WE WANT THE KINGDOM OF EARTH.” + +3. + +And once more began Zarathustra to speak. “O my new friends,” said he,— +“ye strange ones, ye higher men, how well do ye now please me,— + +—Since ye have again become joyful! Ye have, verily, all blossomed +forth: it seemeth to me that for such flowers as you, NEW FESTIVALS are +required. + +—A little valiant nonsense, some divine service and ass-festival, some +old joyful Zarathustra fool, some blusterer to blow your souls bright. + +Forget not this night and this ass-festival, ye higher men! THAT did ye +devise when with me, that do I take as a good omen,—such things only +the convalescents devise! + +And should ye celebrate it again, this ass-festival, do it from love to +yourselves, do it also from love to me! And in remembrance of me!” + +Thus spake Zarathustra. + + + + +LXXIX. THE DRUNKEN SONG. + + +1. + +Meanwhile one after another had gone out into the open air, and into the +cool, thoughtful night; Zarathustra himself, however, led the ugliest +man by the hand, that he might show him his night-world, and the great +round moon, and the silvery water-falls near his cave. There they at +last stood still beside one another; all of them old people, but with +comforted, brave hearts, and astonished in themselves that it was so +well with them on earth; the mystery of the night, however, came nigher +and nigher to their hearts. And anew Zarathustra thought to himself: +“Oh, how well do they now please me, these higher men!”—but he did not +say it aloud, for he respected their happiness and their silence.— + +Then, however, there happened that which in this astonishing long day +was most astonishing: the ugliest man began once more and for the last +time to gurgle and snort, and when he had at length found expression, +behold! there sprang a question plump and plain out of his mouth, a +good, deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all who listened +to him. + +“My friends, all of you,” said the ugliest man, “what think ye? For the +sake of this day—_I_ am for the first time content to have lived mine +entire life. + +And that I testify so much is still not enough for me. It is worth while +living on the earth: one day, one festival with Zarathustra, hath taught +me to love the earth. + +‘Was THAT—life?’ will I say unto death. ‘Well! Once more!’ + +My friends, what think ye? Will ye not, like me, say unto death: ‘Was +THAT—life? For the sake of Zarathustra, well! Once more!’”— + +Thus spake the ugliest man; it was not, however, far from midnight. +And what took place then, think ye? As soon as the higher men heard his +question, they became all at once conscious of their transformation and +convalescence, and of him who was the cause thereof: then did they rush +up to Zarathustra, thanking, honouring, caressing him, and kissing his +hands, each in his own peculiar way; so that some laughed and some wept. +The old soothsayer, however, danced with delight; and though he was +then, as some narrators suppose, full of sweet wine, he was certainly +still fuller of sweet life, and had renounced all weariness. There are +even those who narrate that the ass then danced: for not in vain had the +ugliest man previously given it wine to drink. That may be the case, or +it may be otherwise; and if in truth the ass did not dance that evening, +there nevertheless happened then greater and rarer wonders than +the dancing of an ass would have been. In short, as the proverb of +Zarathustra saith: “What doth it matter!” + +2. + +When, however, this took place with the ugliest man, Zarathustra stood +there like one drunken: his glance dulled, his tongue faltered and his +feet staggered. And who could divine what thoughts then passed through +Zarathustra’s soul? Apparently, however, his spirit retreated and fled +in advance and was in remote distances, and as it were “wandering on +high mountain-ridges,” as it standeth written, “‘twixt two seas, + +—Wandering ‘twixt the past and the future as a heavy cloud.” Gradually, +however, while the higher men held him in their arms, he came back to +himself a little, and resisted with his hands the crowd of the honouring +and caring ones; but he did not speak. All at once, however, he turned +his head quickly, for he seemed to hear something: then laid he his +finger on his mouth and said: “COME!” + +And immediately it became still and mysterious round about; from +the depth however there came up slowly the sound of a clock-bell. +Zarathustra listened thereto, like the higher men; then, however, laid +he his finger on his mouth the second time, and said again: “COME! COME! +IT IS GETTING ON TO MIDNIGHT!”—and his voice had changed. But still +he had not moved from the spot. Then it became yet stiller and more +mysterious, and everything hearkened, even the ass, and Zarathustra’s +noble animals, the eagle and the serpent,—likewise the cave of +Zarathustra and the big cool moon, and the night itself. Zarathustra, +however, laid his hand upon his mouth for the third time, and said: + +COME! COME! COME! LET US NOW WANDER! IT IS THE HOUR: LET US WANDER INTO +THE NIGHT! + +3. + +Ye higher men, it is getting on to midnight: then will I say something +into your ears, as that old clock-bell saith it into mine ear,— + +—As mysteriously, as frightfully, and as cordially as that midnight +clock-bell speaketh it to me, which hath experienced more than one man: + +—Which hath already counted the smarting throbbings of your fathers’ +hearts—ah! ah! how it sigheth! how it laugheth in its dream! the old, +deep, deep midnight! + +Hush! Hush! Then is there many a thing heard which may not be heard +by day; now however, in the cool air, when even all the tumult of your +hearts hath become still,— + +—Now doth it speak, now is it heard, now doth it steal into +overwakeful, nocturnal souls: ah! ah! how the midnight sigheth! how it +laugheth in its dream! + +—Hearest thou not how it mysteriously, frightfully, and cordially +speaketh unto THEE, the old deep, deep midnight? + +O MAN, TAKE HEED! + +4. + +Woe to me! Whither hath time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The +world sleepeth— + +Ah! Ah! The dog howleth, the moon shineth. Rather will I die, rather +will I die, than say unto you what my midnight-heart now thinketh. + +Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why spinnest thou around +me? Wilt thou have blood? Ah! Ah! The dew falleth, the hour cometh— + +—The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asketh and asketh and +asketh: “Who hath sufficient courage for it? + +—Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: THUS shall ye +flow, ye great and small streams!” + +—The hour approacheth: O man, thou higher man, take heed! this talk is +for fine ears, for thine ears—WHAT SAITH DEEP MIDNIGHT’S VOICE INDEED? + +5. + +It carrieth me away, my soul danceth. Day’s-work! Day’s-work! Who is to +be master of the world? + +The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have ye already flown high +enough? Ye have danced: a leg, nevertheless, is not a wing. + +Ye good dancers, now is all delight over: wine hath become lees, every +cup hath become brittle, the sepulchres mutter. + +Ye have not flown high enough: now do the sepulchres mutter: “Free the +dead! Why is it so long night? Doth not the moon make us drunken?” + +Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why doth the +worm still burrow? There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour,— + +—There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth still the heart, there +burroweth still the wood-worm, the heart-worm. Ah! Ah! THE WORLD IS +DEEP! + +6. + +Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love thy tone, thy drunken, ranunculine +tone!—how long, how far hath come unto me thy tone, from the distance, +from the ponds of love! + +Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre! Every pain hath torn thy heart, +father-pain, fathers’-pain, forefathers’-pain; thy speech hath become +ripe,— + +—Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like mine anchorite +heart—now sayest thou: The world itself hath become ripe, the grape +turneth brown, + +—Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness. Ye higher men, do ye not +feel it? There welleth up mysteriously an odour, + +—A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed, brown, +gold-wine-odour of old happiness, + +—Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which singeth: the world is deep, +AND DEEPER THAN THE DAY COULD READ! + +7. + +Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for thee. Touch me not! +Hath not my world just now become perfect? + +My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me alone, thou dull, doltish, +stupid day! Is not the midnight brighter? + +The purest are to be masters of the world, the least known, the +strongest, the midnight-souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day. + +O day, thou gropest for me? Thou feelest for my happiness? For thee am I +rich, lonesome, a treasure-pit, a gold chamber? + +O world, thou wantest ME? Am I worldly for thee? Am I spiritual for +thee? Am I divine for thee? But day and world, ye are too coarse,— + +—Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happiness, after deeper +unhappiness, grasp after some God; grasp not after me: + +—Mine unhappiness, my happiness is deep, thou strange day, but yet am I +no God, no God’s-hell: DEEP IS ITS WOE. + +8. + +God’s woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God’s woe, not at me! +What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,— + +—A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog, which no one understandeth, but which +MUST speak before deaf ones, ye higher men! For ye do not understand me! + +Gone! Gone! O youth! O noontide! O afternoon! Now have come evening and +night and midnight,—the dog howleth, the wind: + +—Is the wind not a dog? It whineth, it barketh, it howleth. Ah! Ah! +how she sigheth! how she laugheth, how she wheezeth and panteth, the +midnight! + +How she just now speaketh soberly, this drunken poetess! hath she +perhaps overdrunk her drunkenness? hath she become overawake? doth she +ruminate? + +—Her woe doth she ruminate over, in a dream, the old, deep +midnight—and still more her joy. For joy, although woe be deep, JOY IS +DEEPER STILL THAN GRIEF CAN BE. + +9. + +Thou grape-vine! Why dost thou praise me? Have I not cut thee! I am +cruel, thou bleedest—: what meaneth thy praise of my drunken cruelty? + +“Whatever hath become perfect, everything mature—wanteth to die!” so +sayest thou. Blessed, blessed be the vintner’s knife! But everything +immature wanteth to live: alas! + +Woe saith: “Hence! Go! Away, thou woe!” But everything that suffereth +wanteth to live, that it may become mature and lively and longing, + +—Longing for the further, the higher, the brighter. “I want heirs,” + so saith everything that suffereth, “I want children, I do not want +MYSELF,”— + +Joy, however, doth not want heirs, it doth not want children,—joy +wanteth itself, it wanteth eternity, it wanteth recurrence, it wanteth +everything eternally-like-itself. + +Woe saith: “Break, bleed, thou heart! Wander, thou leg! Thou wing, fly! +Onward! upward! thou pain!” Well! Cheer up! O mine old heart: WOE SAITH: +“HENCE! GO!” + +10. + +Ye higher men, what think ye? Am I a soothsayer? Or a dreamer? Or a +drunkard? Or a dream-reader? Or a midnight-bell? + +Or a drop of dew? Or a fume and fragrance of eternity? Hear ye it not? +Smell ye it not? Just now hath my world become perfect, midnight is also +midday,— + +Pain is also a joy, curse is also a blessing, night is also a sun,—go +away! or ye will learn that a sage is also a fool. + +Said ye ever Yea to one joy? O my friends, then said ye Yea also unto +ALL woe. All things are enlinked, enlaced and enamoured,— + +—Wanted ye ever once to come twice; said ye ever: “Thou pleasest me, +happiness! Instant! Moment!” then wanted ye ALL to come back again! + +—All anew, all eternal, all enlinked, enlaced and enamoured, Oh, then +did ye LOVE the world,— + +—Ye eternal ones, ye love it eternally and for all time: and also unto +woe do ye say: Hence! Go! but come back! FOR JOYS ALL WANT—ETERNITY! + +11. + +All joy wanteth the eternity of all things, it wanteth honey, it +wanteth lees, it wanteth drunken midnight, it wanteth graves, it wanteth +grave-tears’ consolation, it wanteth gilded evening-red— + +—WHAT doth not joy want! it is thirstier, heartier, hungrier, more +frightful, more mysterious, than all woe: it wanteth ITSELF, it biteth +into ITSELF, the ring’s will writheth in it,— + +—It wanteth love, it wanteth hate, it is over-rich, it bestoweth, it +throweth away, it beggeth for some one to take from it, it thanketh the +taker, it would fain be hated,— + +—So rich is joy that it thirsteth for woe, for hell, for hate, for +shame, for the lame, for the WORLD,—for this world, Oh, ye know it +indeed! + +Ye higher men, for you doth it long, this joy, this irrepressible, +blessed joy—for your woe, ye failures! For failures, longeth all +eternal joy. + +For joys all want themselves, therefore do they also want grief! O +happiness, O pain! Oh break, thou heart! Ye higher men, do learn it, +that joys want eternity. + +—Joys want the eternity of ALL things, they WANT DEEP, PROFOUND +ETERNITY! + +12. + +Have ye now learned my song? Have ye divined what it would say? Well! +Cheer up! Ye higher men, sing now my roundelay! + +Sing now yourselves the song, the name of which is “Once more,” the +signification of which is “Unto all eternity!”—sing, ye higher men, +Zarathustra’s roundelay! + + O man! Take heed! + What saith deep midnight’s voice indeed? + “I slept my sleep—, + “From deepest dream I’ve woke, and plead:— + “The world is deep, + “And deeper than the day could read. + “Deep is its woe—, + “Joy—deeper still than grief can be: + “Woe saith: Hence! Go! + “But joys all want eternity—, + “—Want deep, profound eternity!” + + + + +LXXX. THE SIGN. + + +In the morning, however, after this night, Zarathustra jumped up from +his couch, and, having girded his loins, he came out of his cave glowing +and strong, like a morning sun coming out of gloomy mountains. + +“Thou great star,” spake he, as he had spoken once before, “thou deep +eye of happiness, what would be all thy happiness if thou hadst not +THOSE for whom thou shinest! + +And if they remained in their chambers whilst thou art already awake, +and comest and bestowest and distributest, how would thy proud modesty +upbraid for it! + +Well! they still sleep, these higher men, whilst _I_ am awake: THEY are +not my proper companions! Not for them do I wait here in my mountains. + +At my work I want to be, at my day: but they understand not what are the +signs of my morning, my step—is not for them the awakening-call. + +They still sleep in my cave; their dream still drinketh at my drunken +songs. The audient ear for ME—the OBEDIENT ear, is yet lacking in their +limbs.” + +—This had Zarathustra spoken to his heart when the sun arose: then +looked he inquiringly aloft, for he heard above him the sharp call of +his eagle. “Well!” called he upwards, “thus is it pleasing and proper to +me. Mine animals are awake, for I am awake. + +Mine eagle is awake, and like me honoureth the sun. With eagle-talons +doth it grasp at the new light. Ye are my proper animals; I love you. + +But still do I lack my proper men!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra; then, however, it happened that all on a sudden +he became aware that he was flocked around and fluttered around, as if +by innumerable birds,—the whizzing of so many wings, however, and the +crowding around his head was so great that he shut his eyes. And verily, +there came down upon him as it were a cloud, like a cloud of arrows +which poureth upon a new enemy. But behold, here it was a cloud of love, +and showered upon a new friend. + +“What happeneth unto me?” thought Zarathustra in his astonished heart, +and slowly seated himself on the big stone which lay close to the exit +from his cave. But while he grasped about with his hands, around him, +above him and below him, and repelled the tender birds, behold, there +then happened to him something still stranger: for he grasped thereby +unawares into a mass of thick, warm, shaggy hair; at the same time, +however, there sounded before him a roar,—a long, soft lion-roar. + +“THE SIGN COMETH,” said Zarathustra, and a change came over his heart. +And in truth, when it turned clear before him, there lay a yellow, +powerful animal at his feet, resting its head on his knee,—unwilling to +leave him out of love, and doing like a dog which again findeth its old +master. The doves, however, were no less eager with their love than the +lion; and whenever a dove whisked over its nose, the lion shook its head +and wondered and laughed. + +When all this went on Zarathustra spake only a word: “MY CHILDREN ARE +NIGH, MY CHILDREN”—, then he became quite mute. His heart, however, +was loosed, and from his eyes there dropped down tears and fell upon +his hands. And he took no further notice of anything, but sat there +motionless, without repelling the animals further. Then flew the doves +to and fro, and perched on his shoulder, and caressed his white hair, +and did not tire of their tenderness and joyousness. The strong lion, +however, licked always the tears that fell on Zarathustra’s hands, and +roared and growled shyly. Thus did these animals do.— + +All this went on for a long time, or a short time: for properly +speaking, there is NO time on earth for such things—. Meanwhile, +however, the higher men had awakened in Zarathustra’s cave, and +marshalled themselves for a procession to go to meet Zarathustra, and +give him their morning greeting: for they had found when they awakened +that he no longer tarried with them. When, however, they reached the +door of the cave and the noise of their steps had preceded them, the +lion started violently; it turned away all at once from Zarathustra, and +roaring wildly, sprang towards the cave. The higher men, however, when +they heard the lion roaring, cried all aloud as with one voice, fled +back and vanished in an instant. + +Zarathustra himself, however, stunned and strange, rose from his seat, +looked around him, stood there astonished, inquired of his heart, +bethought himself, and remained alone. “What did I hear?” said he at +last, slowly, “what happened unto me just now?” + +But soon there came to him his recollection, and he took in at a glance +all that had taken place between yesterday and to-day. “Here is indeed +the stone,” said he, and stroked his beard, “on IT sat I yester-morn; +and here came the soothsayer unto me, and here heard I first the cry +which I heard just now, the great cry of distress. + +O ye higher men, YOUR distress was it that the old soothsayer foretold +to me yester-morn,— + +—Unto your distress did he want to seduce and tempt me: ‘O +Zarathustra,’ said he to me, ‘I come to seduce thee to thy last sin.’ + +To my last sin?” cried Zarathustra, and laughed angrily at his own +words: “WHAT hath been reserved for me as my last sin?” + +—And once more Zarathustra became absorbed in himself, and sat down +again on the big stone and meditated. Suddenly he sprang up,— + +“FELLOW-SUFFERING! FELLOW-SUFFERING WITH THE HIGHER MEN!” he cried out, +and his countenance changed into brass. “Well! THAT—hath had its time! + +My suffering and my fellow-suffering—what matter about them! Do I then +strive after HAPPINESS? I strive after my WORK! + +Well! The lion hath come, my children are nigh, Zarathustra hath grown +ripe, mine hour hath come:— + +This is MY morning, MY day beginneth: ARISE NOW, ARISE, THOU GREAT +NOONTIDE!”— + +Thus spake Zarathustra and left his cave, glowing and strong, like a +morning sun coming out of gloomy mountains. + + + + +APPENDIX. + + +NOTES ON “THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA” BY ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI. + +I have had some opportunities of studying the conditions under which +Nietzsche is read in Germany, France, and England, and I have found +that, in each of these countries, students of his philosophy, as if +actuated by precisely similar motives and desires, and misled by the +same mistaken tactics on the part of most publishers, all proceed in the +same happy-go-lucky style when “taking him up.” They have had it said to +them that he wrote without any system, and they very naturally conclude +that it does not matter in the least whether they begin with his first, +third, or last book, provided they can obtain a few vague ideas as to +what his leading and most sensational principles were. + +Now, it is clear that the book with the most mysterious, startling, or +suggestive title, will always stand the best chance of being purchased +by those who have no other criteria to guide them in their choice +than the aspect of a title-page; and this explains why “Thus Spake +Zarathustra” is almost always the first and often the only one of +Nietzsche’s books that falls into the hands of the uninitiated. + +The title suggests all kinds of mysteries; a glance at the +chapter-headings quickly confirms the suspicions already aroused, +and the sub-title: “A Book for All and None”, generally succeeds in +dissipating the last doubts the prospective purchaser may entertain +concerning his fitness for the book or its fitness for him. And what +happens? + +“Thus Spake Zarathustra” is taken home; the reader, who perchance may +know no more concerning Nietzsche than a magazine article has told him, +tries to read it and, understanding less than half he reads, probably +never gets further than the second or third part,—and then only to feel +convinced that Nietzsche himself was “rather hazy” as to what he was +talking about. Such chapters as “The Child with the Mirror”, “In the +Happy Isles”, “The Grave-Song,” “Immaculate Perception,” “The Stillest +Hour”, “The Seven Seals”, and many others, are almost utterly devoid of +meaning to all those who do not know something of Nietzsche’s life, his +aims and his friendships. + +As a matter of fact, “Thus Spake Zarathustra”, though it is +unquestionably Nietzsche’s opus magnum, is by no means the first of +Nietzsche’s works that the beginner ought to undertake to read. The +author himself refers to it as the deepest work ever offered to the +German public, and elsewhere speaks of his other writings as being +necessary for the understanding of it. But when it is remembered that +in Zarathustra we not only have the history of his most intimate +experiences, friendships, feuds, disappointments, triumphs and the like, +but that the very form in which they are narrated is one which tends +rather to obscure than to throw light upon them, the difficulties which +meet the reader who starts quite unprepared will be seen to be really +formidable. + +Zarathustra, then,—this shadowy, allegorical personality, speaking in +allegories and parables, and at times not even refraining from relating +his own dreams—is a figure we can understand but very imperfectly if we +have no knowledge of his creator and counterpart, Friedrich Nietzsche; +and it were therefore well, previous to our study of the more abstruse +parts of this book, if we were to turn to some authoritative book on +Nietzsche’s life and works and to read all that is there said on the +subject. Those who can read German will find an excellent guide, in this +respect, in Frau Foerster-Nietzsche’s exhaustive and highly interesting +biography of her brother: “Das Leben Friedrich Nietzsche’s” (published +by Naumann); while the works of Deussen, Raoul Richter, and Baroness +Isabelle von Unger-Sternberg, will be found to throw useful and +necessary light upon many questions which it would be difficult for a +sister to touch upon. + +In regard to the actual philosophical views expounded in this work, +there is an excellent way of clearing up any difficulties they may +present, and that is by an appeal to Nietzsche’s other works. Again and +again, of course, he will be found to express himself so clearly that +all reference to his other writings may be dispensed with; but where +this is not the case, the advice he himself gives is after all the best +to be followed here, viz.:—to regard such works as: “Joyful Science”, +“Beyond Good and Evil”, “The Genealogy of Morals”, “The Twilight of +the Idols”, “The Antichrist”, “The Will to Power”, etc., etc., as the +necessary preparation for “Thus Spake Zarathustra”. + +These directions, though they are by no means simple to carry out, seem +at least to possess the quality of definiteness and straightforwardness. +“Follow them and all will be clear,” I seem to imply. But I regret to +say that this is not really the case. For my experience tells me that +even after the above directions have been followed with the greatest +possible zeal, the student will still halt in perplexity before certain +passages in the book before us, and wonder what they mean. Now, it is +with the view of giving a little additional help to all those who find +themselves in this position that I proceed to put forth my own personal +interpretation of the more abstruse passages in this work. + +In offering this little commentary to the Nietzsche student, I should +like it to be understood that I make no claim as to its infallibility or +indispensability. It represents but an attempt on my part—a very feeble +one perhaps—to give the reader what little help I can in surmounting +difficulties which a long study of Nietzsche’s life and works has +enabled me, partially I hope, to overcome. + + ... + +Perhaps it would be as well to start out with a broad and rapid sketch +of Nietzsche as a writer on Morals, Evolution, and Sociology, so that +the reader may be prepared to pick out for himself, so to speak, all +passages in this work bearing in any way upon Nietzsche’s views in those +three important branches of knowledge. + +(A.) Nietzsche and Morality. + +In morality, Nietzsche starts out by adopting the position of the +relativist. He says there are no absolute values “good” and “evil”; +these are mere means adopted by all in order to acquire power to +maintain their place in the world, or to become supreme. It is the +lion’s good to devour an antelope. It is the dead-leaf butterfly’s +good to tell a foe a falsehood. For when the dead-leaf butterfly is in +danger, it clings to the side of a twig, and what it says to its foe is +practically this: “I am not a butterfly, I am a dead leaf, and can be +of no use to thee.” This is a lie which is good to the butterfly, for +it preserves it. In nature every species of organic being instinctively +adopts and practises those acts which most conduce to the prevalence +or supremacy of its kind. Once the most favourable order of conduct is +found, proved efficient and established, it becomes the ruling morality +of the species that adopts it and bears them along to victory. All +species must not and cannot value alike, for what is the lion’s good is +the antelope’s evil and vice versa. + +Concepts of good and evil are therefore, in their origin, merely a means +to an end, they are expedients for acquiring power. + +Applying this principle to mankind, Nietzsche attacked Christian +moral values. He declared them to be, like all other morals, merely +an expedient for protecting a certain type of man. In the case of +Christianity this type was, according to Nietzsche, a low one. + +Conflicting moral codes have been no more than the conflicting weapons +of different classes of men; for in mankind there is a continual war +between the powerful, the noble, the strong, and the well-constituted +on the one side, and the impotent, the mean, the weak, and the +ill-constituted on the other. The war is a war of moral principles. +The morality of the powerful class, Nietzsche calls NOBLE- or +MASTER-MORALITY; that of the weak and subordinate class he calls +SLAVE-MORALITY. In the first morality it is the eagle which, looking +down upon a browsing lamb, contends that “eating lamb is good.” In the +second, the slave-morality, it is the lamb which, looking up from the +sward, bleats dissentingly: “Eating lamb is evil.” + +(B.) The Master- and Slave-Morality Compared. + +The first morality is active, creative, Dionysian. The second is +passive, defensive,—to it belongs the “struggle for existence.” + +Where attempts have not been made to reconcile the two moralities, they +may be described as follows:—All is GOOD in the noble morality which +proceeds from strength, power, health, well-constitutedness, happiness, +and awfulness; for, the motive force behind the people practising it is +“the struggle for power.” The antithesis “good and bad” to this +first class means the same as “noble” and “despicable.” “Bad” in the +master-morality must be applied to the coward, to all acts that spring +from weakness, to the man with “an eye to the main chance,” who would +forsake everything in order to live. + +With the second, the slave-morality, the case is different. There, +inasmuch as the community is an oppressed, suffering, unemancipated, and +weary one, all THAT will be held to be good which alleviates the +state of suffering. Pity, the obliging hand, the warm heart, patience, +industry, and humility—these are unquestionably the qualities we shall +here find flooded with the light of approval and admiration; because +they are the most USEFUL qualities—; they make life endurable, they are +of assistance in the “struggle for existence” which is the motive force +behind the people practising this morality. To this class, all that is +AWFUL is bad, in fact it is THE evil par excellence. Strength, health, +superabundance of animal spirits and power, are regarded with hate, +suspicion, and fear by the subordinate class. + +Now Nietzsche believed that the first or the noble-morality conduced to +an ascent in the line of life; because it was creative and active. On +the other hand, he believed that the second or slave-morality, where +it became paramount, led to degeneration, because it was passive and +defensive, wanting merely to keep those who practised it alive. Hence +his earnest advocacy of noble-morality. + +(C.) Nietzsche and Evolution. + +Nietzsche as an evolutionist I shall have occasion to define and discuss +in the course of these notes (see Notes on Chapter LVI., par. 10, and on +Chapter LVII.). For the present let it suffice for us to know that he +accepted the “Development Hypothesis” as an explanation of the origin of +species: but he did not halt where most naturalists have halted. He +by no means regarded man as the highest possible being which evolution +could arrive at; for though his physical development may have reached +its limit, this is not the case with his mental or spiritual attributes. +If the process be a fact; if things have BECOME what they are, then, he +contends, we may describe no limit to man’s aspirations. If he struggled +up from barbarism, and still more remotely from the lower Primates, +his ideal should be to surpass man himself and reach Superman (see +especially the Prologue). + +(D.) Nietzsche and Sociology. + +Nietzsche as a sociologist aims at an aristocratic arrangement of +society. He would have us rear an ideal race. Honest and truthful in +intellectual matters, he could not even think that men are equal. “With +these preachers of equality will I not be mixed up and confounded. For +thus speaketh justice unto ME: ‘Men are not equal.’” He sees precisely +in this inequality a purpose to be served, a condition to be exploited. +“Every elevation of the type ‘man,’” he writes in “Beyond Good and +Evil”, “has hitherto been the work of an aristocratic society—and so +will it always be—a society believing in a long scale of gradations of +rank and differences of worth among human beings.” + +Those who are sufficiently interested to desire to read his own detailed +account of the society he would fain establish, will find an excellent +passage in Aphorism 57 of “The Antichrist”. + + ... + +PART I. THE PROLOGUE. + +In Part I. including the Prologue, no very great difficulties will +appear. Zarathustra’s habit of designating a whole class of men or a +whole school of thought by a single fitting nickname may perhaps lead to +a little confusion at first; but, as a rule, when the general drift +of his arguments is grasped, it requires but a slight effort of the +imagination to discover whom he is referring to. In the ninth paragraph +of the Prologue, for instance, it is quite obvious that “Herdsmen” in +the verse “Herdsmen, I say, etc., etc.,” stands for all those to-day +who are the advocates of gregariousness—of the ant-hill. And when our +author says: “A robber shall Zarathustra be called by the herdsmen,” it +is clear that these words may be taken almost literally from one whose +ideal was the rearing of a higher aristocracy. Again, “the good and +just,” throughout the book, is the expression used in referring to the +self-righteous of modern times,—those who are quite sure that they +know all that is to be known concerning good and evil, and are satisfied +that the values their little world of tradition has handed down to them, +are destined to rule mankind as long as it lasts. + +In the last paragraph of the Prologue, verse 7, Zarathustra gives us a +foretaste of his teaching concerning the big and the little sagacities, +expounded subsequently. He says he would he were as wise as his serpent; +this desire will be found explained in the discourse entitled “The +Despisers of the Body”, which I shall have occasion to refer to later. + + ... + +THE DISCOURSES. + +Chapter I. The Three Metamorphoses. + +This opening discourse is a parable in which Zarathustra discloses the +mental development of all creators of new values. It is the story of +a life which reaches its consummation in attaining to a second +ingenuousness or in returning to childhood. Nietzsche, the supposed +anarchist, here plainly disclaims all relationship whatever to anarchy, +for he shows us that only by bearing the burdens of the existing law and +submitting to it patiently, as the camel submits to being laden, does +the free spirit acquire that ascendancy over tradition which enables him +to meet and master the dragon “Thou shalt,”—the dragon with the values +of a thousand years glittering on its scales. There are two lessons in +this discourse: first, that in order to create one must be as a little +child; secondly, that it is only through existing law and order that +one attains to that height from which new law and new order may be +promulgated. + +Chapter II. The Academic Chairs of Virtue. + +Almost the whole of this is quite comprehensible. It is a discourse +against all those who confound virtue with tameness and smug ease, and +who regard as virtuous only that which promotes security and tends to +deepen sleep. + +Chapter IV. The Despisers of the Body. + +Here Zarathustra gives names to the intellect and the instincts; he +calls the one “the little sagacity” and the latter “the big sagacity.” + Schopenhauer’s teaching concerning the intellect is fully endorsed here. +“An instrument of thy body is also thy little sagacity, my brother, +which thou callest ‘spirit,’” says Zarathustra. From beginning to end it +is a warning to those who would think too lightly of the instincts +and unduly exalt the intellect and its derivatives: Reason and +Understanding. + +Chapter IX. The Preachers of Death. + +This is an analysis of the psychology of all those who have the “evil +eye” and are pessimists by virtue of their constitutions. + +Chapter XV. The Thousand and One Goals. + +In this discourse Zarathustra opens his exposition of the doctrine of +relativity in morality, and declares all morality to be a mere means +to power. Needless to say that verses 9, 10, 11, and 12 refer to the +Greeks, the Persians, the Jews, and the Germans respectively. In the +penultimate verse he makes known his discovery concerning the root of +modern Nihilism and indifference,—i.e., that modern man has no goal, no +aim, no ideals (see Note A). + +Chapter XVIII. Old and Young Women. + +Nietzsche’s views on women have either to be loved at first sight +or they become perhaps the greatest obstacle in the way of those who +otherwise would be inclined to accept his philosophy. Women especially, +of course, have been taught to dislike them, because it has been +rumoured that his views are unfriendly to themselves. Now, to my mind, +all this is pure misunderstanding and error. + +German philosophers, thanks to Schopenhauer, have earned rather a bad +name for their views on women. It is almost impossible for one of them +to write a line on the subject, however kindly he may do so, without +being suspected of wishing to open a crusade against the fair sex. +Despite the fact, therefore, that all Nietzsche’s views in this respect +were dictated to him by the profoundest love; despite Zarathustra’s +reservation in this discourse, that “with women nothing (that can be +said) is impossible,” and in the face of other overwhelming evidence +to the contrary, Nietzsche is universally reported to have mis son +pied dans le plat, where the female sex is concerned. And what is the +fundamental doctrine which has given rise to so much bitterness and +aversion?—Merely this: that the sexes are at bottom ANTAGONISTIC—that +is to say, as different as blue is from yellow, and that the best +possible means of rearing anything approaching a desirable race is to +preserve and to foster this profound hostility. What Nietzsche strives +to combat and to overthrow is the modern democratic tendency which is +slowly labouring to level all things—even the sexes. His quarrel is not +with women—what indeed could be more undignified?—it is with those who +would destroy the natural relationship between the sexes, by modifying +either the one or the other with a view to making them more alike. The +human world is just as dependent upon women’s powers as upon men’s. It +is women’s strongest and most valuable instincts which help to determine +who are to be the fathers of the next generation. By destroying these +particular instincts, that is to say by attempting to masculinise woman, +and to feminise men, we jeopardise the future of our people. The general +democratic movement of modern times, in its frantic struggle to mitigate +all differences, is now invading even the world of sex. It is against +this movement that Nietzsche raises his voice; he would have woman +become ever more woman and man become ever more man. Only thus, and +he is undoubtedly right, can their combined instincts lead to the +excellence of humanity. Regarded in this light, all his views on woman +appear not only necessary but just (see Note on Chapter LVI., par. 21.) + +It is interesting to observe that the last line of the discourse, which +has so frequently been used by women as a weapon against Nietzsche’s +views concerning them, was suggested to Nietzsche by a woman (see “Das +Leben F. Nietzsche’s”). + +Chapter XXI. Voluntary Death. + +In regard to this discourse, I should only like to point out that +Nietzsche had a particular aversion to the word “suicide”—self-murder. +He disliked the evil it suggested, and in rechristening the act +Voluntary Death, i.e., the death that comes from no other hand than +one’s own, he was desirous of elevating it to the position it held in +classical antiquity (see Aphorism 36 in “The Twilight of the Idols”). + +Chapter XXII. The Bestowing Virtue. + +An important aspect of Nietzsche’s philosophy is brought to light in +this discourse. His teaching, as is well known, places the Aristotelian +man of spirit, above all others in the natural divisions of man. The +man with overflowing strength, both of mind and body, who must discharge +this strength or perish, is the Nietzschean ideal. To such a man, giving +from his overflow becomes a necessity; bestowing develops into a means +of existence, and this is the only giving, the only charity, that +Nietzsche recognises. In paragraph 3 of the discourse, we read +Zarathustra’s healthy exhortation to his disciples to become independent +thinkers and to find themselves before they learn any more from him (see +Notes on Chapters LVI., par. 5, and LXXIII., pars. 10, 11). + + ... + +PART II. + +Chapter XXIII. The Child with the Mirror. + +Nietzsche tells us here, in a poetical form, how deeply grieved he was +by the manifold misinterpretations and misunderstandings which were +becoming rife concerning his publications. He does not recognise +himself in the mirror of public opinion, and recoils terrified from the +distorted reflection of his features. In verse 20 he gives us a +hint which it were well not to pass over too lightly; for, in the +introduction to “The Genealogy of Morals” (written in 1887) he finds it +necessary to refer to the matter again and with greater precision. The +point is this, that a creator of new values meets with his surest and +strongest obstacles in the very spirit of the language which is at his +disposal. Words, like all other manifestations of an evolving race, are +stamped with the values that have long been paramount in that race. +Now, the original thinker who finds himself compelled to use the current +speech of his country in order to impart new and hitherto untried views +to his fellows, imposes a task upon the natural means of communication +which it is totally unfitted to perform,—hence the obscurities and +prolixities which are so frequently met with in the writings of original +thinkers. In the “Dawn of Day”, Nietzsche actually cautions young +writers against THE DANGER OF ALLOWING THEIR THOUGHTS TO BE MOULDED BY +THE WORDS AT THEIR DISPOSAL. + +Chapter XXIV. In the Happy Isles. + +While writing this, Nietzsche is supposed to have been thinking of the +island of Ischia which was ultimately destroyed by an earthquake. His +teaching here is quite clear. He was among the first thinkers of Europe +to overcome the pessimism which godlessness generally brings in its +wake. He points to creating as the surest salvation from the suffering +which is a concomitant of all higher life. “What would there be to +create,” he asks, “if there were—Gods?” His ideal, the Superman, lends +him the cheerfulness necessary to the overcoming of that despair usually +attendant upon godlessness and upon the apparent aimlessness of a world +without a god. + +Chapter XXIX. The Tarantulas. + +The tarantulas are the Socialists and Democrats. This discourse offers +us an analysis of their mental attitude. Nietzsche refuses to be +confounded with those resentful and revengeful ones who condemn society +FROM BELOW, and whose criticism is only suppressed envy. “There are +those who preach my doctrine of life,” he says of the Nietzschean +Socialists, “and are at the same time preachers of equality and +tarantulas” (see Notes on Chapter XL. and Chapter LI.). + +Chapter XXX. The Famous Wise Ones. + +This refers to all those philosophers hitherto, who have run in the +harness of established values and have not risked their reputation with +the people in pursuit of truth. The philosopher, however, as Nietzsche +understood him, is a man who creates new values, and thus leads mankind +in a new direction. + +Chapter XXXIII. The Grave-Song. + +Here Zarathustra sings about the ideals and friendships of his youth. +Verses 27 to 31 undoubtedly refer to Richard Wagner (see Note on Chapter +LXV.). + +Chapter XXXIV. Self-Surpassing. + +In this discourse we get the best exposition in the whole book of +Nietzsche’s doctrine of the Will to Power. I go into this question +thoroughly in the Note on Chapter LVII. + +Nietzsche was not an iconoclast from choice. Those who hastily class him +with the anarchists (or the Progressivists of the last century) fail +to understand the high esteem in which he always held both law and +discipline. In verse 41 of this most decisive discourse he truly +explains his position when he says: “...he who hath to be a creator in +good and evil—verily he hath first to be a destroyer, and break values +in pieces.” This teaching in regard to self-control is evidence enough +of his reverence for law. + +Chapter XXXV. The Sublime Ones. + +These belong to a type which Nietzsche did not altogether dislike, but +which he would fain have rendered more subtle and plastic. It is the +type that takes life and itself too seriously, that never surmounts the +camel-stage mentioned in the first discourse, and that is obdurately +sublime and earnest. To be able to smile while speaking of lofty things +and NOT TO BE OPPRESSED by them, is the secret of real greatness. He +whose hand trembles when it lays hold of a beautiful thing, has the +quality of reverence, without the artist’s unembarrassed friendship +with the beautiful. Hence the mistakes which have arisen in regard to +confounding Nietzsche with his extreme opposites the anarchists and +agitators. For what they dare to touch and break with the impudence +and irreverence of the unappreciative, he seems likewise to touch and +break,—but with other fingers—with the fingers of the loving and +unembarrassed artist who is on good terms with the beautiful and who +feels able to create it and to enhance it with his touch. The question +of taste plays an important part in Nietzsche’s philosophy, and verses +9, 10 of this discourse exactly state Nietzsche’s ultimate views on the +subject. In the “Spirit of Gravity”, he actually cries:—“Neither a good +nor a bad taste, but MY taste, of which I have no longer either shame or +secrecy.” + +Chapter XXXVI. The Land of Culture. + +This is a poetical epitome of some of the scathing criticism of +scholars which appears in the first of the “Thoughts out of Season”—the +polemical pamphlet (written in 1873) against David Strauss and his +school. He reproaches his former colleagues with being sterile and +shows them that their sterility is the result of their not believing +in anything. “He who had to create, had always his presaging dreams and +astral premonitions—and believed in believing!” (See Note on Chapter +LXXVII.) In the last two verses he reveals the nature of his altruism. +How far it differs from that of Christianity we have already read in the +discourse “Neighbour-Love”, but here he tells us definitely the nature +of his love to mankind; he explains why he was compelled to assail the +Christian values of pity and excessive love of the neighbour, not only +because they are slave-values and therefore tend to promote degeneration +(see Note B.), but because he could only love his children’s land, the +undiscovered land in a remote sea; because he would fain retrieve the +errors of his fathers in his children. + +Chapter XXXVII. Immaculate Perception. + +An important feature of Nietzsche’s interpretation of Life is disclosed +in this discourse. As Buckle suggests in his “Influence of Women on the +Progress of Knowledge”, the scientific spirit of the investigator is +both helped and supplemented by the latter’s emotions and personality, +and the divorce of all emotionalism and individual temperament from +science is a fatal step towards sterility. Zarathustra abjures all those +who would fain turn an IMPERSONAL eye upon nature and contemplate her +phenomena with that pure objectivity to which the scientific idealists +of to-day would so much like to attain. He accuses such idealists of +hypocrisy and guile; he says they lack innocence in their desires and +therefore slander all desiring. + +Chapter XXXVIII. Scholars. + +This is a record of Nietzsche’s final breach with his former +colleagues—the scholars of Germany. Already after the publication of +the “Birth of Tragedy”, numbers of German philologists and professional +philosophers had denounced him as one who had strayed too far from +their flock, and his lectures at the University of Bale were deserted +in consequence; but it was not until 1879, when he finally severed all +connection with University work, that he may be said to have attained to +the freedom and independence which stamp this discourse. + +Chapter XXXIX. Poets. + +People have sometimes said that Nietzsche had no sense of humour. I +have no intention of defending him here against such foolish critics; I +should only like to point out to the reader that we have him here at +his best, poking fun at himself, and at his fellow-poets (see Note on +Chapter LXIII., pars. 16, 17, 18, 19, 20). + +Chapter XL. Great Events. + +Here we seem to have a puzzle. Zarathustra himself, while relating +his experience with the fire-dog to his disciples, fails to get them +interested in his narrative, and we also may be only too ready to turn +over these pages under the impression that they are little more than +a mere phantasy or poetical flight. Zarathustra’s interview with the +fire-dog is, however, of great importance. In it we find Nietzsche +face to face with the creature he most sincerely loathes—the spirit +of revolution, and we obtain fresh hints concerning his hatred of the +anarchist and rebel. “‘Freedom’ ye all roar most eagerly,” he says to +the fire-dog, “but I have unlearned the belief in ‘Great Events’ when +there is much roaring and smoke about them. Not around the inventors +of new noise, but around the inventors of new values, doth the world +revolve; INAUDIBLY it revolveth.” + +Chapter XLI. The Soothsayer. + +This refers, of course, to Schopenhauer. Nietzsche, as is well known, +was at one time an ardent follower of Schopenhauer. He overcame +Pessimism by discovering an object in existence; he saw the possibility +of raising society to a higher level and preached the profoundest +Optimism in consequence. + +Chapter XLII. Redemption. + +Zarathustra here addresses cripples. He tells them of other +cripples—the GREAT MEN in this world who have one organ or faculty +inordinately developed at the cost of their other faculties. This is +doubtless a reference to a fact which is too often noticeable in the +case of so many of the world’s giants in art, science, or religion. In +verse 19 we are told what Nietzsche called Redemption—that is to say, +the ability to say of all that is past: “Thus would I have it.” The +in ability to say this, and the resentment which results therefrom, +he regards as the source of all our feelings of revenge, and all our +desires to punish—punishment meaning to him merely a euphemism for the +word revenge, invented in order to still our consciences. He who can be +proud of his enemies, who can be grateful to them for the obstacles they +have put in his way; he who can regard his worst calamity as but the +extra strain on the bow of his life, which is to send the arrow of +his longing even further than he could have hoped;—this man knows no +revenge, neither does he know despair, he truly has found redemption and +can turn on the worst in his life and even in himself, and call it his +best (see Notes on Chapter LVII.). + +Chapter XLIII. Manly Prudence. + +This discourse is very important. In “Beyond Good and Evil” we hear +often enough that the select and superior man must wear a mask, and +here we find this injunction explained. “And he who would not languish +amongst men, must learn to drink out of all glasses: and he who would +keep clean amongst men, must know how to wash himself even with dirty +water.” This, I venture to suggest, requires some explanation. At a time +when individuality is supposed to be shown most tellingly by putting +boots on one’s hands and gloves on one’s feet, it is somewhat refreshing +to come across a true individualist who feels the chasm between himself +and others so deeply, that he must perforce adapt himself to them +outwardly, at least, in all respects, so that the inner difference +should be overlooked. Nietzsche practically tells us here that it is not +he who intentionally wears eccentric clothes or does eccentric things +who is truly the individualist. The profound man, who is by nature +differentiated from his fellows, feels this difference too keenly to +call attention to it by any outward show. He is shamefast and bashful +with those who surround him and wishes not to be discovered by them, +just as one instinctively avoids all lavish display of comfort or wealth +in the presence of a poor friend. + +Chapter XLIV. The Stillest Hour. + +This seems to me to give an account of the great struggle which must +have taken place in Nietzsche’s soul before he finally resolved to make +known the more esoteric portions of his teaching. Our deepest feelings +crave silence. There is a certain self-respect in the serious man which +makes him hold his profoundest feelings sacred. Before they are uttered +they are full of the modesty of a virgin, and often the oldest sage will +blush like a girl when this virginity is violated by an indiscretion +which forces him to reveal his deepest thoughts. + + ... + +PART III. + +This is perhaps the most important of all the four parts. If it +contained only “The Vision and the Enigma” and “The Old and New Tables” + I should still be of this opinion; for in the former of these discourses +we meet with what Nietzsche regarded as the crowning doctrine of his +philosophy and in “The Old and New Tables” we have a valuable epitome of +practically all his leading principles. + +Chapter XLVI. The Vision and the Enigma. + +“The Vision and the Enigma” is perhaps an example of Nietzsche in his +most obscure vein. We must know how persistently he inveighed against +the oppressing and depressing influence of man’s sense of guilt and +consciousness of sin in order fully to grasp the significance of this +discourse. Slowly but surely, he thought the values of Christianity and +Judaic traditions had done their work in the minds of men. What were +once but expedients devised for the discipline of a certain portion of +humanity, had now passed into man’s blood and had become instincts. This +oppressive and paralysing sense of guilt and of sin is what Nietzsche +refers to when he speaks of “the spirit of gravity.” This creature +half-dwarf, half-mole, whom he bears with him a certain distance on his +climb and finally defies, and whom he calls his devil and arch-enemy, is +nothing more than the heavy millstone “guilty conscience,” together with +the concept of sin which at present hangs round the neck of men. To rise +above it—to soar—is the most difficult of all things to-day. Nietzsche +is able to think cheerfully and optimistically of the possibility of +life in this world recurring again and again, when he has once cast the +dwarf from his shoulders, and he announces his doctrine of the Eternal +Recurrence of all things great and small to his arch-enemy and in +defiance of him. + +That there is much to be said for Nietzsche’s hypothesis of the Eternal +Recurrence of all things great and small, nobody who has read the +literature on the subject will doubt for an instant; but it remains a +very daring conjecture notwithstanding and even in its ultimate effect, +as a dogma, on the minds of men, I venture to doubt whether Nietzsche +ever properly estimated its worth (see Note on Chapter LVII.). + +What follows is clear enough. Zarathustra sees a young shepherd +struggling on the ground with a snake holding fast to the back of his +throat. The sage, assuming that the snake must have crawled into the +young man’s mouth while he lay sleeping, runs to his help and pulls +at the loathsome reptile with all his might, but in vain. At last, in +despair, Zarathustra appeals to the young man’s will. Knowing full well +what a ghastly operation he is recommending, he nevertheless cries, +“Bite! Bite! Its head off! Bite!” as the only possible solution of the +difficulty. The young shepherd bites, and far away he spits the +snake’s head, whereupon he rises, “No longer shepherd, no longer man—a +transfigured being, a light-surrounded being, that LAUGHED! Never on +earth laughed a man as he laughed!” + +In this parable the young shepherd is obviously the man of to-day; the +snake that chokes him represents the stultifying and paralysing social +values that threaten to shatter humanity, and the advice “Bite! Bite!” + is but Nietzsche’s exasperated cry to mankind to alter their values +before it is too late. + +Chapter XLVII. Involuntary Bliss. + +This, like “The Wanderer”, is one of the many introspective passages +in the work, and is full of innuendos and hints as to the Nietzschean +outlook on life. + +Chapter XLVIII. Before Sunrise. + +Here we have a record of Zarathustra’s avowal of optimism, as also the +important statement concerning “Chance” or “Accident” (verse 27). Those +who are familiar with Nietzsche’s philosophy will not require to be told +what an important role his doctrine of chance plays in his teaching. +The Giant Chance has hitherto played with the puppet “man,”—this is +the fact he cannot contemplate with equanimity. Man shall now exploit +chance, he says again and again, and make it fall on its knees before +him! (See verse 33 in “On the Olive-Mount”, and verses 9–10 in “The +Bedwarfing Virtue”). + +Chapter XLIX. The Bedwarfing Virtue. + +This requires scarcely any comment. It is a satire on modern man and +his belittling virtues. In verses 23 and 24 of the second part of the +discourse we are reminded of Nietzsche’s powerful indictment of the +great of to-day, in the Antichrist (Aphorism 43):—“At present +nobody has any longer the courage for separate rights, for rights of +domination, for a feeling of reverence for himself and his equals,—FOR +PATHOS OF DISTANCE.... Our politics are MORBID from this want of +courage!—The aristocracy of character has been undermined most craftily +by the lie of the equality of souls; and if the belief in the ‘privilege +of the many,’ makes revolutions and WILL CONTINUE TO MAKE them, it is +Christianity, let us not doubt it, it is CHRISTIAN valuations, which +translate every revolution merely into blood and crime!” (see also +“Beyond Good and Evil”, pages 120, 121). Nietzsche thought it was a +bad sign of the times that even rulers have lost the courage of +their positions, and that a man of Frederick the Great’s power and +distinguished gifts should have been able to say: “Ich bin der erste +Diener des Staates” (I am the first servant of the State.) To this +utterance of the great sovereign, verse 24 undoubtedly refers. +“Cowardice” and “Mediocrity,” are the names with which he labels modern +notions of virtue and moderation. + +In Part III., we get the sentiments of the discourse “In the Happy +Isles”, but perhaps in stronger terms. Once again we find Nietzsche +thoroughly at ease, if not cheerful, as an atheist, and speaking with +vertiginous daring of making chance go on its knees to him. In verse +20, Zarathustra makes yet another attempt at defining his entirely +anti-anarchical attitude, and unless such passages have been completely +overlooked or deliberately ignored hitherto by those who will persist in +laying anarchy at his door, it is impossible to understand how he ever +became associated with that foul political party. + +The last verse introduces the expression, “THE GREAT NOONTIDE!” In the +poem to be found at the end of “Beyond Good and Evil”, we meet with +the expression again, and we shall find it occurring time and again in +Nietzsche’s works. It will be found fully elucidated in the fifth part +of “The Twilight of the Idols”; but for those who cannot refer to +this book, it were well to point out that Nietzsche called the present +period—our period—the noon of man’s history. Dawn is behind us. The +childhood of mankind is over. Now we KNOW; there is now no longer any +excuse for mistakes which will tend to botch and disfigure the type man. +“With respect to what is past,” he says, “I have, like all discerning +ones, great toleration, that is to say, GENEROUS self-control.... But my +feeling changes suddenly, and breaks out as soon as I enter the modern +period, OUR period. Our age KNOWS...” (See Note on Chapter LXX.). + +Chapter LI. On Passing-by. + +Here we find Nietzsche confronted with his extreme opposite, with +him therefore for whom he is most frequently mistaken by the unwary. +“Zarathustra’s ape” he is called in the discourse. He is one of those +at whose hands Nietzsche had to suffer most during his life-time, and +at whose hands his philosophy has suffered most since his death. In this +respect it may seem a little trivial to speak of extremes meeting; but +it is wonderfully apt. Many have adopted Nietzsche’s mannerisms and +word-coinages, who had nothing in common with him beyond the ideas and +“business” they plagiarised; but the superficial observer and a large +portion of the public, not knowing of these things,—not knowing perhaps +that there are iconoclasts who destroy out of love and are therefore +creators, and that there are others who destroy out of resentment and +revengefulness and who are therefore revolutionists and anarchists,—are +prone to confound the two, to the detriment of the nobler type. + +If we now read what the fool says to Zarathustra, and note the tricks of +speech he has borrowed from him: if we carefully follow the attitude +he assumes, we shall understand why Zarathustra finally interrupts him. +“Stop this at once,” Zarathustra cries, “long have thy speech and +thy species disgusted me.... Out of love alone shall my contempt and my +warning bird take wing; BUT NOT OUT OF THE SWAMP!” It were well if +this discourse were taken to heart by all those who are too ready to +associate Nietzsche with lesser and noiser men,—with mountebanks and +mummers. + +Chapter LII. The Apostates. + +It is clear that this applies to all those breathless and hasty “tasters +of everything,” who plunge too rashly into the sea of independent +thought and “heresy,” and who, having miscalculated their strength, find +it impossible to keep their head above water. “A little older, a little +colder,” says Nietzsche. They soon clamber back to the conventions of +the age they intended reforming. The French then say “le diable se fait +hermite,” but these men, as a rule, have never been devils, neither +do they become angels; for, in order to be really good or evil, some +strength and deep breathing is required. Those who are more interested +in supporting orthodoxy than in being over nice concerning the kind of +support they give it, often refer to these people as evidence in favour +of the true faith. + +Chapter LIII. The Return Home. + +This is an example of a class of writing which may be passed over too +lightly by those whom poetasters have made distrustful of poetry. From +first to last it is extremely valuable as an autobiographical note. The +inevitable superficiality of the rabble is contrasted with the peaceful +and profound depths of the anchorite. Here we first get a direct hint +concerning Nietzsche’s fundamental passion—the main force behind all +his new values and scathing criticism of existing values. In verse 30 +we are told that pity was his greatest danger. The broad altruism of the +law-giver, thinking over vast eras of time, was continually being pitted +by Nietzsche, in himself, against that transient and meaner sympathy for +the neighbour which he more perhaps than any of his contemporaries had +suffered from, but which he was certain involved enormous dangers not +only for himself but also to the next and subsequent generations (see +Note B., where “pity” is mentioned among the degenerate virtues). Later +in the book we shall see how his profound compassion leads him into +temptation, and how frantically he struggles against it. In verses 31 +and 32, he tells us to what extent he had to modify himself in order +to be endured by his fellows whom he loved (see also verse 12 in “Manly +Prudence”). Nietzsche’s great love for his fellows, which he confesses +in the Prologue, and which is at the root of all his teaching, seems +rather to elude the discerning powers of the average philanthropist and +modern man. He cannot see the wood for the trees. A philanthropy that +sacrifices the minority of the present-day for the majority constituting +posterity, completely evades his mental grasp, and Nietzsche’s +philosophy, because it declares Christian values to be a danger to the +future of our kind, is therefore shelved as brutal, cold, and hard (see +Note on Chapter XXXVI.). Nietzsche tried to be all things to all men; +he was sufficiently fond of his fellows for that: in the Return Home he +describes how he ultimately returns to loneliness in order to recover +from the effects of his experiment. + +Chapter LIV. The Three Evil Things. + +Nietzsche is here completely in his element. Three things hitherto +best cursed and most calumniated on earth, are brought forward to be +weighed. Voluptuousness, thirst of power, and selfishness,—the three +forces in humanity which Christianity has done most to garble and +besmirch,—Nietzsche endeavours to reinstate in their former places of +honour. Voluptuousness, or sensual pleasure, is a dangerous thing to +discuss nowadays. If we mention it with favour we may be regarded, +however unjustly, as the advocate of savages, satyrs, and pure +sensuality. If we condemn it, we either go over to the Puritans or we +join those who are wont to come to table with no edge to their appetites +and who therefore grumble at all good fare. There can be no doubt that +the value of healthy innocent voluptuousness, like the value of health +itself, must have been greatly discounted by all those who, resenting +their inability to partake of this world’s goods, cried like St Paul: +“I would that all men were even as I myself.” Now Nietzsche’s philosophy +might be called an attempt at giving back to healthy and normal men +innocence and a clean conscience in their desires—NOT to applaud the +vulgar sensualists who respond to every stimulus and whose passions are +out of hand; not to tell the mean, selfish individual, whose selfishness +is a pollution (see Aphorism 33, “Twilight of the Idols”), that he is +right, nor to assure the weak, the sick, and the crippled, that the +thirst of power, which they gratify by exploiting the happier and +healthier individuals, is justified;—but to save the clean healthy man +from the values of those around him, who look at everything through the +mud that is in their own bodies,—to give him, and him alone, a clean +conscience in his manhood and the desires of his manhood. “Do I counsel +you to slay your instincts? I counsel to innocence in your instincts.” + In verse 7 of the second paragraph (as in verse I of paragraph 19 in +“The Old and New Tables”) Nietzsche gives us a reason for his occasional +obscurity (see also verses 3 to 7 of “Poets”). As I have already pointed +out, his philosophy is quite esoteric. It can serve no purpose with the +ordinary, mediocre type of man. I, personally, can no longer have any +doubt that Nietzsche’s only object, in that part of his philosophy where +he bids his friends stand “Beyond Good and Evil” with him, was to save +higher men, whose growth and scope might be limited by the too +strict observance of modern values from foundering on the rocks of a +“Compromise” between their own genius and traditional conventions. The +only possible way in which the great man can achieve greatness is +by means of exceptional freedom—the freedom which assists him in +experiencing HIMSELF. Verses 20 to 30 afford an excellent supplement to +Nietzsche’s description of the attitude of the noble type towards the +slaves in Aphorism 260 of the work “Beyond Good and Evil” (see also Note +B.) + +Chapter LV. The Spirit of Gravity. + +(See Note on Chapter XLVI.) In Part II. of this discourse we meet with +a doctrine not touched upon hitherto, save indirectly;—I refer to the +doctrine of self-love. We should try to understand this perfectly before +proceeding; for it is precisely views of this sort which, after having +been cut out of the original context, are repeated far and wide as +internal evidence proving the general unsoundness of Nietzsche’s +philosophy. Already in the last of the “Thoughts out of Season” + Nietzsche speaks as follows about modern men: “...these modern creatures +wish rather to be hunted down, wounded and torn to shreds, than to +live alone with themselves in solitary calm. Alone with oneself!—this +thought terrifies the modern soul; it is his one anxiety, his one +ghastly fear” (English Edition, page 141). In his feverish scurry to +find entertainment and diversion, whether in a novel, a newspaper, or a +play, the modern man condemns his own age utterly; for he shows that in +his heart of hearts he despises himself. One cannot change a condition +of this sort in a day; to become endurable to oneself an inner +transformation is necessary. Too long have we lost ourselves in our +friends and entertainments to be able to find ourselves so soon at +another’s bidding. “And verily, it is no commandment for to-day and +to-morrow to LEARN to love oneself. Rather is it of all arts the finest, +subtlest, last, and patientest.” + +In the last verse Nietzsche challenges us to show that our way is +the right way. In his teaching he does not coerce us, nor does he +overpersuade; he simply says: “I am a law only for mine own, I am not a +law for all. This—is now MY way,—where is yours?” + +Chapter LVI. Old and New Tables. Par. 2. + +Nietzsche himself declares this to be the most decisive portion of +the whole of “Thus Spake Zarathustra”. It is a sort of epitome of his +leading doctrines. In verse 12 of the second paragraph, we learn how he +himself would fain have abandoned the poetical method of expression had +he not known only too well that the only chance a new doctrine has of +surviving, nowadays, depends upon its being given to the world in some +kind of art-form. Just as prophets, centuries ago, often had to have +recourse to the mask of madness in order to mitigate the hatred of those +who did not and could not see as they did; so, to-day, the struggle for +existence among opinions and values is so great, that an art-form +is practically the only garb in which a new philosophy can dare to +introduce itself to us. + +Pars. 3 and 4. + +Many of the paragraphs will be found to be merely reminiscent of former +discourses. For instance, par. 3 recalls “Redemption”. The last verse +of par. 4 is important. Freedom which, as I have pointed out before, +Nietzsche considered a dangerous acquisition in inexperienced or +unworthy hands, here receives its death-blow as a general desideratum. +In the first Part we read under “The Way of the Creating One”, that +freedom as an end in itself does not concern Zarathustra at all. He says +there: “Free from what? What doth that matter to Zarathustra? Clearly, +however, shall thine eye answer me: free FOR WHAT?” And in “The +Bedwarfing Virtue”: “Ah that ye understood my word: ‘Do ever what ye +will—but first be such as CAN WILL.’” + +Par. 5. + +Here we have a description of the kind of altruism Nietzsche exacted +from higher men. It is really a comment upon “The Bestowing Virtue” (see +Note on Chapter XXII.). + +Par. 6. + +This refers, of course, to the reception pioneers of Nietzsche’s stamp +meet with at the hands of their contemporaries. + +Par. 8. + +Nietzsche teaches that nothing is stable,—not even values,—not +even the concepts good and evil. He likens life unto a stream. But +foot-bridges and railings span the stream, and they seem to stand +firm. Many will be reminded of good and evil when they look upon these +structures; for thus these same values stand over the stream of life, +and life flows on beneath them and leaves them standing. When, however, +winter comes and the stream gets frozen, many inquire: “Should not +everything—STAND STILL? Fundamentally everything standeth still.” But +soon the spring cometh and with it the thaw-wind. It breaks the ice, and +the ice breaks down the foot-bridges and railings, whereupon everything +is swept away. This state of affairs, according to Nietzsche, has now +been reached. “Oh, my brethren, is not everything AT PRESENT IN FLUX? +Have not all railings and foot-bridges fallen into the water? Who would +still HOLD ON to ‘good’ and ‘evil’?” + +Par. 9. + +This is complementary to the first three verses of par. 2. + +Par. 10. + +So far, this is perhaps the most important paragraph. It is a protest +against reading a moral order of things in life. “Life is something +essentially immoral!” Nietzsche tells us in the introduction to the +“Birth of Tragedy”. Even to call life “activity,” or to define it +further as “the continuous adjustment of internal relations to external +relations,” as Spencer has it, Nietzsche characterises as a “democratic +idiosyncracy.” He says to define it in this way, “is to mistake the +true nature and function of life, which is Will to Power.... Life is +ESSENTIALLY appropriation, injury, conquest of the strange and weak, +suppression, severity, obtrusion of its own forms, incorporation and +at least, putting it mildest, exploitation.” Adaptation is merely a +secondary activity, a mere re-activity (see Note on Chapter LVII.). + +Pars. 11, 12. + +These deal with Nietzsche’s principle of the desirability of rearing a +select race. The biological and historical grounds for his insistence +upon this principle are, of course, manifold. Gobineau in his great +work, “L’Inegalite des Races Humaines”, lays strong emphasis upon the +evils which arise from promiscuous and inter-social marriages. He alone +would suffice to carry Nietzsche’s point against all those who are +opposed to the other conditions, to the conditions which would have +saved Rome, which have maintained the strength of the Jewish race, and +which are strictly maintained by every breeder of animals throughout the +world. Darwin in his remarks relative to the degeneration of CULTIVATED +types of animals through the action of promiscuous breeding, brings +Gobineau support from the realm of biology. + +The last two verses of par. 12 were discussed in the Notes on Chapters +XXXVI. and LIII. + +Par. 13. + +This, like the first part of “The Soothsayer”, is obviously a reference +to the Schopenhauerian Pessimism. + +Pars. 14, 15, 16, 17. + +These are supplementary to the discourse “Backworld’s-men”. + +Par. 18. + +We must be careful to separate this paragraph, in sense, from the +previous four paragraphs. Nietzsche is still dealing with Pessimism +here; but it is the pessimism of the hero—the man most susceptible of +all to desperate views of life, owing to the obstacles that are arrayed +against him in a world where men of his kind are very rare and are +continually being sacrificed. It was to save this man that Nietzsche +wrote. Heroism foiled, thwarted, and wrecked, hoping and fighting until +the last, is at length overtaken by despair, and renounces all struggle +for sleep. This is not the natural or constitutional pessimism which +proceeds from an unhealthy body—the dyspeptic’s lack of appetite; it +is rather the desperation of the netted lion that ultimately stops all +movement, because the more it moves the more involved it becomes. + +Par. 20. + +“All that increases power is good, all that springs from weakness is +bad. The weak and ill-constituted shall perish: first principle of our +charity. And one shall also help them thereto.” Nietzsche partly divined +the kind of reception moral values of this stamp would meet with at +the hands of the effeminate manhood of Europe. Here we see that he had +anticipated the most likely form their criticism would take (see also +the last two verses of par. 17). + +Par. 21. + +The first ten verses, here, are reminiscent of “War and Warriors” and +of “The Flies in the Market-place.” Verses 11 and 12, however, are +particularly important. There is a strong argument in favour of the +sharp differentiation of castes and of races (and even of sexes; see +Note on Chapter XVIII.) running all through Nietzsche’s writings. +But sharp differentiation also implies antagonism in some form or +other—hence Nietzsche’s fears for modern men. What modern men desire +above all, is peace and the cessation of pain. But neither great races +nor great castes have ever been built up in this way. “Who still wanteth +to rule?” Zarathustra asks in the “Prologue”. “Who still wanteth to +obey? Both are too burdensome.” This is rapidly becoming everybody’s +attitude to-day. The tame moral reading of the face of nature, together +with such democratic interpretations of life as those suggested by +Herbert Spencer, are signs of a physiological condition which is the +reverse of that bounding and irresponsible healthiness in which harder +and more tragic values rule. + +Par. 24. + +This should be read in conjunction with “Child and Marriage”. In the +fifth verse we shall recognise our old friend “Marriage on the ten-years +system,” which George Meredith suggested some years ago. This, however, +must not be taken too literally. I do not think Nietzsche’s profoundest +views on marriage were ever intended to be given over to the public at +all, at least not for the present. They appear in the biography by his +sister, and although their wisdom is unquestionable, the nature of the +reforms he suggests render it impossible for them to become popular just +now. + +Pars. 26, 27. + +See Note on “The Prologue”. + +Par. 28. + +Nietzsche was not an iconoclast from predilection. No bitterness or +empty hate dictated his vituperations against existing values and +against the dogmas of his parents and forefathers. He knew too well what +these things meant to the millions who profess them, to approach the +task of uprooting them with levity or even with haste. He saw what +modern anarchists and revolutionists do NOT see—namely, that man is in +danger of actual destruction when his customs and values are broken. +I need hardly point out, therefore, how deeply he was conscious of +the responsibility he threw upon our shoulders when he invited us to +reconsider our position. The lines in this paragraph are evidence enough +of his earnestness. + +Chapter LVII. The Convalescent. + +We meet with several puzzles here. Zarathustra calls himself the +advocate of the circle (the Eternal Recurrence of all things), and he +calls this doctrine his abysmal thought. In the last verse of the +first paragraph, however, after hailing his deepest thought, he cries: +“Disgust, disgust, disgust!” We know Nietzsche’s ideal man was that +“world-approving, exuberant, and vivacious creature, who has not only +learnt to compromise and arrange with that which was and is, but wishes +to have it again, AS IT WAS AND IS, for all eternity insatiably calling +out da capo, not only to himself, but to the whole piece and play” (see +Note on Chapter XLII.). But if one ask oneself what the conditions to +such an attitude are, one will realise immediately how utterly different +Nietzsche was from his ideal. The man who insatiably cries da capo to +himself and to the whole of his mise-en-scene, must be in a position to +desire every incident in his life to be repeated, not once, but +again and again eternally. Now, Nietzsche’s life had been too full of +disappointments, illness, unsuccessful struggles, and snubs, to allow of +his thinking of the Eternal Recurrence without loathing—hence probably +the words of the last verse. + +In verses 15 and 16, we have Nietzsche declaring himself an evolutionist +in the broadest sense—that is to say, that he believes in the +Development Hypothesis as the description of the process by which +species have originated. Now, to understand his position correctly +we must show his relationship to the two greatest of modern +evolutionists—Darwin and Spencer. As a philosopher, however, Nietzsche +does not stand or fall by his objections to the Darwinian or Spencerian +cosmogony. He never laid claim to a very profound knowledge of biology, +and his criticism is far more valuable as the attitude of a fresh mind +than as that of a specialist towards the question. Moreover, in his +objections many difficulties are raised which are not settled by an +appeal to either of the men above mentioned. We have given Nietzsche’s +definition of life in the Note on Chapter LVI., par. 10. Still, there +remains a hope that Darwin and Nietzsche may some day become reconciled +by a new description of the processes by which varieties occur. The +appearance of varieties among animals and of “sporting plants” in +the vegetable kingdom, is still shrouded in mystery, and the question +whether this is not precisely the ground on which Darwin and Nietzsche +will meet, is an interesting one. The former says in his “Origin of +Species”, concerning the causes of variability: “...there are two +factors, namely, the nature of the organism, and the nature of the +conditions. THE FORMER SEEMS TO BE MUCH THE MORE IMPORTANT (The italics +are mine.), for nearly similar variations sometimes arise under, as +far as we can judge, dissimilar conditions; and on the other hand, +dissimilar variations arise under conditions which appear to be +nearly uniform.” Nietzsche, recognising this same truth, would ascribe +practically all the importance to the “highest functionaries in the +organism, in which the life-will appears as an active and formative +principle,” and except in certain cases (where passive organisms alone +are concerned) would not give such a prominent place to the influence +of environment. Adaptation, according to him, is merely a secondary +activity, a mere re-activity, and he is therefore quite opposed to +Spencer’s definition: “Life is the continuous adjustment of internal +relations to external relations.” Again in the motive force behind +animal and plant life, Nietzsche disagrees with Darwin. He +transforms the “Struggle for Existence”—the passive and involuntary +condition—into the “Struggle for Power,” which is active and creative, +and much more in harmony with Darwin’s own view, given above, concerning +the importance of the organism itself. The change is one of such +far-reaching importance that we cannot dispose of it in a breath, as a +mere play upon words. “Much is reckoned higher than life itself by the +living one.” Nietzsche says that to speak of the activity of life as a +“struggle for existence,” is to state the case inadequately. He warns us +not to confound Malthus with nature. There is something more than +this struggle between the organic beings on this earth; want, which is +supposed to bring this struggle about, is not so common as is supposed; +some other force must be operative. The Will to Power is this force, +“the instinct of self-preservation is only one of the indirect and most +frequent results thereof.” A certain lack of acumen in psychological +questions and the condition of affairs in England at the time Darwin +wrote, may both, according to Nietzsche, have induced the renowned +naturalist to describe the forces of nature as he did in his “Origin of +Species”. + +In verses 28, 29, and 30 of the second portion of this discourse we meet +with a doctrine which, at first sight, seems to be merely “le manoir +a l’envers,” indeed one English critic has actually said of Nietzsche, +that “Thus Spake Zarathustra” is no more than a compendium of modern +views and maxims turned upside down. Examining these heterodox +pronouncements a little more closely, however, we may possibly perceive +their truth. Regarding good and evil as purely relative values, it +stands to reason that what may be bad or evil in a given man, relative +to a certain environment, may actually be good if not highly virtuous +in him relative to a certain other environment. If this hypothetical man +represent the ascending line of life—that is to say, if he promise all +that which is highest in a Graeco-Roman sense, then it is likely that +he will be condemned as wicked if introduced into the society of men +representing the opposite and descending line of life. + +By depriving a man of his wickedness—more particularly nowadays— +therefore, one may unwittingly be doing violence to the greatest in him. +It may be an outrage against his wholeness, just as the lopping-off of a +leg would be. Fortunately, the natural so-called “wickedness” of higher +men has in a certain measure been able to resist this lopping process +which successive slave-moralities have practised; but signs are not +wanting which show that the noblest wickedness is fast vanishing from +society—the wickedness of courage and determination—and that Nietzsche +had good reasons for crying: “Ah, that (man’s) baddest is so very small! +Ah, that his best is so very small. What is good? To be brave is good! +It is the good war which halloweth every cause!” (see also par. 5, +“Higher Man”). + +Chapter LX. The Seven Seals. + +This is a final paean which Zarathustra sings to Eternity and the +marriage-ring of rings, the ring of the Eternal Recurrence. + + ... + +PART IV. + +In my opinion this part is Nietzsche’s open avowal that all his +philosophy, together with all his hopes, enthusiastic outbursts, +blasphemies, prolixities, and obscurities, were merely so many gifts +laid at the feet of higher men. He had no desire to save the world. What +he wished to determine was: Who is to be master of the world? This is +a very different thing. He came to save higher men;—to give them that +freedom by which, alone, they can develop and reach their zenith (see +Note on Chapter LIV., end). It has been argued, and with considerable +force, that no such philosophy is required by higher men, that, as a +matter of fact, higher men, by virtue of their constitutions always, do +stand Beyond Good and Evil, and never allow anything to stand in the +way of their complete growth. Nietzsche, however, was evidently not so +confident about this. He would probably have argued that we only see the +successful cases. Being a great man himself, he was well aware of the +dangers threatening greatness in our age. In “Beyond Good and Evil” he +writes: “There are few pains so grievous as to have seen, divined, +or experienced how an exceptional man has missed his way and +deteriorated...” He knew “from his painfullest recollections on what +wretched obstacles promising developments of the highest rank have +hitherto usually gone to pieces, broken down, sunk, and become +contemptible.” Now in Part IV. we shall find that his strongest +temptation to descend to the feeling of “pity” for his contemporaries, +is the “cry for help” which he hears from the lips of the higher men +exposed to the dreadful danger of their modern environment. + +Chapter LXI. The Honey Sacrifice. + +In the fourteenth verse of this discourse Nietzsche defines the solemn +duty he imposed upon himself: “Become what thou art.” Surely the +criticism which has been directed against this maxim must all fall to +the ground when it is remembered, once and for all, that Nietzsche’s +teaching was never intended to be other than an esoteric one. “I am a +law only for mine own,” he says emphatically, “I am not a law for +all.” It is of the greatest importance to humanity that its highest +individuals should be allowed to attain to their full development; for, +only by means of its heroes can the human race be led forward step by +step to higher and yet higher levels. “Become what thou art” applied +to all, of course, becomes a vicious maxim; it is to be hoped, however, +that we may learn in time that the same action performed by a given +number of men, loses its identity precisely that same number of +times.—“Quod licet Jovi, non licet bovi.” + +At the last eight verses many readers may be tempted to laugh. In +England we almost always laugh when a man takes himself seriously at +anything save sport. And there is of course no reason why the reader +should not be hilarious.—A certain greatness is requisite, both in +order to be sublime and to have reverence for the sublime. Nietzsche +earnestly believed that the Zarathustra-kingdom—his dynasty of a +thousand years—would one day come; if he had not believed it so +earnestly, if every artist in fact had not believed so earnestly in +his Hazar, whether of ten, fifteen, a hundred, or a thousand years, we +should have lost all our higher men; they would have become pessimists, +suicides, or merchants. If the minor poet and philosopher has made us +shy of the prophetic seriousness which characterized an Isaiah or a +Jeremiah, it is surely our loss and the minor poet’s gain. + +Chapter LXII. The Cry of Distress. + +We now meet with Zarathustra in extraordinary circumstances. He is +confronted with Schopenhauer and tempted by the old Soothsayer to commit +the sin of pity. “I have come that I may seduce thee to thy last sin!” + says the Soothsayer to Zarathustra. It will be remembered that in +Schopenhauer’s ethics, pity is elevated to the highest place among the +virtues, and very consistently too, seeing that the Weltanschauung is +a pessimistic one. Schopenhauer appeals to Nietzsche’s deepest and +strongest sentiment—his sympathy for higher men. “Why dost thou conceal +thyself?” he cries. “It is THE HIGHER MAN that calleth for thee!” + Zarathustra is almost overcome by the Soothsayer’s pleading, as he +had been once already in the past, but he resists him step by step. At +length he can withstand him no longer, and, on the plea that the higher +man is on his ground and therefore under his protection, Zarathustra +departs in search of him, leaving Schopenhauer—a higher man in +Nietzsche’s opinion—in the cave as a guest. + +Chapter LXIII. Talk with the Kings. + +On his way Zarathustra meets two more higher men of his time; two +kings cross his path. They are above the average modern type; for their +instincts tell them what real ruling is, and they despise the mockery +which they have been taught to call “Reigning.” “We ARE NOT the first +men,” they say, “and have nevertheless to STAND FOR them: of this +imposture have we at last become weary and disgusted.” It is the kings +who tell Zarathustra: “There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny +than when the mighty of the earth are not also the first men. There +everything becometh false and distorted and monstrous.” The kings are +also asked by Zarathustra to accept the shelter of his cave, whereupon +he proceeds on his way. + +Chapter LXIV. The Leech. + +Among the higher men whom Zarathustra wishes to save, is also the +scientific specialist—the man who honestly and scrupulously pursues his +investigations, as Darwin did, in one department of knowledge. “I love +him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh to know in order that the +Superman may hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his own down-going.” + “The spiritually conscientious one,” he is called in this discourse. +Zarathustra steps on him unawares, and the slave of science, bleeding +from the violence he has done to himself by his self-imposed task, +speaks proudly of his little sphere of knowledge—his little hand’s +breadth of ground on Zarathustra’s territory, philosophy. “Where mine +honesty ceaseth,” says the true scientific specialist, “there am I blind +and want also to be blind. Where I want to know, however, there want +I also to be honest—namely, severe, rigorous, restricted, cruel, and +inexorable.” Zarathustra greatly respecting this man, invites him too to +the cave, and then vanishes in answer to another cry for help. + +Chapter LXV. The Magician. + +The Magician is of course an artist, and Nietzsche’s intimate knowledge +of perhaps the greatest artist of his age rendered the selection of +Wagner, as the type in this discourse, almost inevitable. Most readers +will be acquainted with the facts relating to Nietzsche’s and Wagner’s +friendship and ultimate separation. As a boy and a youth Nietzsche had +shown such a remarkable gift for music that it had been a question at +one time whether he should not perhaps give up everything else in order +to develop this gift, but he became a scholar notwithstanding, although +he never entirely gave up composing, and playing the piano. While +still in his teens, he became acquainted with Wagner’s music and +grew passionately fond of it. Long before he met Wagner he must have +idealised him in his mind to an extent which only a profoundly artistic +nature could have been capable of. Nietzsche always had high ideals for +humanity. If one were asked whether, throughout his many changes, there +was yet one aim, one direction, and one hope to which he held fast, +one would be forced to reply in the affirmative and declare that aim, +direction, and hope to have been “the elevation of the type man.” + Now, when Nietzsche met Wagner he was actually casting about for an +incarnation of his dreams for the German people, and we have only to +remember his youth (he was twenty-one when he was introduced to Wagner), +his love of Wagner’s music, and the undoubted power of the great +musician’s personality, in order to realise how very uncritical his +attitude must have been in the first flood of his enthusiasm. Again, +when the friendship ripened, we cannot well imagine Nietzsche, the +younger man, being anything less than intoxicated by his senior’s +attention and love, and we are therefore not surprised to find him +pressing Wagner forward as the great Reformer and Saviour of mankind. +“Wagner in Bayreuth” (English Edition, 1909) gives us the best proof +of Nietzsche’s infatuation, and although signs are not wanting in this +essay which show how clearly and even cruelly he was sub-consciously +“taking stock” of his friend—even then, the work is a record of what +great love and admiration can do in the way of endowing the object +of one’s affection with all the qualities and ideals that a fertile +imagination can conceive. + +When the blow came it was therefore all the more severe. Nietzsche +at length realised that the friend of his fancy and the real Richard +Wagner—the composer of Parsifal—were not one; the fact dawned +upon him slowly; disappointment upon disappointment, revelation after +revelation, ultimately brought it home to him, and though his best +instincts were naturally opposed to it at first, the revulsion of +feeling at last became too strong to be ignored, and Nietzsche was +plunged into the blackest despair. Years after his break with Wagner, +he wrote “The Case of Wagner”, and “Nietzsche contra Wagner”, and these +works are with us to prove the sincerity and depth of his views on the +man who was the greatest event of his life. + +The poem in this discourse is, of course, reminiscent of Wagner’s own +poetical manner, and it must be remembered that the whole was written +subsequent to Nietzsche’s final break with his friend. The dialogue +between Zarathustra and the Magician reveals pretty fully what it +was that Nietzsche grew to loathe so intensely in Wagner,—viz., his +pronounced histrionic tendencies, his dissembling powers, his inordinate +vanity, his equivocalness, his falseness. “It honoureth thee,” says +Zarathustra, “that thou soughtest for greatness, but it betrayeth thee +also. Thou art not great.” The Magician is nevertheless sent as a guest +to Zarathustra’s cave; for, in his heart, Zarathustra believed until the +end that the Magician was a higher man broken by modern values. + +Chapter LXVI. Out of Service. + +Zarathustra now meets the last pope, and, in a poetical form, we get +Nietzsche’s description of the course Judaism and Christianity pursued +before they reached their final break-up in Atheism, Agnosticism, and +the like. The God of a strong, warlike race—the God of Israel—is a +jealous, revengeful God. He is a power that can be pictured and endured +only by a hardy and courageous race, a race rich enough to sacrifice and +to lose in sacrifice. The image of this God degenerates with the people +that appropriate it, and gradually He becomes a God of love—“soft and +mellow,” a lower middle-class deity, who is “pitiful.” He can no longer +be a God who requires sacrifice, for we ourselves are no longer rich +enough for that. The tables are therefore turned upon Him; HE must +sacrifice to us. His pity becomes so great that he actually does +sacrifice something to us—His only begotten Son. Such a process +carried to its logical conclusions must ultimately end in His own +destruction, and thus we find the pope declaring that God was one day +suffocated by His all-too-great pity. What follows is clear enough. +Zarathustra recognises another higher man in the ex-pope and sends him +too as a guest to the cave. + +Chapter LXVII. The Ugliest Man. + +This discourse contains perhaps the boldest of Nietzsche’s suggestions +concerning Atheism, as well as some extremely penetrating remarks upon +the sentiment of pity. Zarathustra comes across the repulsive creature +sitting on the wayside, and what does he do? He manifests the only +correct feelings that can be manifested in the presence of any great +misery—that is to say, shame, reverence, embarrassment. Nietzsche +detested the obtrusive and gushing pity that goes up to misery without +a blush either on its cheek or in its heart—the pity which is only +another form of self-glorification. “Thank God that I am not like +thee!”—only this self-glorifying sentiment can lend a well-constituted +man the impudence to SHOW his pity for the cripple and the +ill-constituted. In the presence of the ugliest man Nietzsche +blushes,—he blushes for his race; his own particular kind of +altruism—the altruism that might have prevented the existence of this +man—strikes him with all its force. He will have the world otherwise. +He will have a world where one need not blush for one’s fellows—hence +his appeal to us to love only our children’s land, the land undiscovered +in the remotest sea. + +Zarathustra calls the ugliest man the murderer of God! Certainly, this +is one aspect of a certain kind of Atheism—the Atheism of the man who +reveres beauty to such an extent that his own ugliness, which outrages +him, must be concealed from every eye lest it should not be respected as +Zarathustra respected it. If there be a God, He too must be evaded. His +pity must be foiled. But God is ubiquitous and omniscient. Therefore, +for the really GREAT ugly man, He must not exist. “Their pity IS it from +which I flee away,” he says—that is to say: “It is from their want of +reverence and lack of shame in presence of my great misery!” The ugliest +man despises himself; but Zarathustra said in his Prologue: “I love +the great despisers because they are the great adorers, and arrows of +longing for the other shore.” He therefore honours the ugliest man: sees +height in his self-contempt, and invites him to join the other higher +men in the cave. + +Chapter LXVIII. The Voluntary Beggar. + +In this discourse, we undoubtedly have the ideal Buddhist, if not +Gautama Buddha himself. Nietzsche had the greatest respect for Buddhism, +and almost wherever he refers to it in his works, it is in terms of +praise. He recognised that though Buddhism is undoubtedly a religion for +decadents, its decadent values emanate from the higher and not, as in +Christianity, from the lower grades of society. In Aphorism 20 of “The +Antichrist”, he compares it exhaustively with Christianity, and +the result of his investigation is very much in favour of the older +religion. Still, he recognised a most decided Buddhistic influence +in Christ’s teaching, and the words in verses 29, 30, and 31 are very +reminiscent of his views in regard to the Christian Savior. + +The figure of Christ has been introduced often enough into fiction, and +many scholars have undertaken to write His life according to their own +lights, but few perhaps have ever attempted to present Him to us bereft +of all those characteristics which a lack of the sense of harmony has +attached to His person through the ages in which His doctrines have been +taught. Now Nietzsche disagreed entirely with Renan’s view, that Christ +was “le grand maitre en ironie”; in Aphorism 31 of “The Antichrist”, +he says that he (Nietzsche) always purged his picture of the Humble +Nazarene of all those bitter and spiteful outbursts which, in view of +the struggle the first Christians went through, may very well have been +added to the original character by Apologists and Sectarians who, at +that time, could ill afford to consider nice psychological points, +seeing that what they needed, above all, was a wrangling and abusive +deity. These two conflicting halves in the character of the Christ of +the Gospels, which no sound psychology can ever reconcile, Nietzsche +always kept distinct in his own mind; he could not credit the same man +with sentiments sometimes so noble and at other times so vulgar, and +in presenting us with this new portrait of the Saviour, purged of all +impurities, Nietzsche rendered military honours to a foe, which far +exceed in worth all that His most ardent disciples have ever claimed for +Him. In verse 26 we are vividly reminded of Herbert Spencer’s words “‘Le +mariage de convenance’ is legalised prostitution.” + +Chapter LXIX. The Shadow. + +Here we have a description of that courageous and wayward spirit that +literally haunts the footsteps of every great thinker and every great +leader; sometimes with the result that it loses all aims, all hopes, +and all trust in a definite goal. It is the case of the bravest and +most broad-minded men of to-day. These literally shadow the most daring +movements in the science and art of their generation; they completely +lose their bearings and actually find themselves, in the end, without a +way, a goal, or a home. “On every surface have I already sat!...I become +thin, I am almost equal to a shadow!” At last, in despair, such men +do indeed cry out: “Nothing is true; all is permitted,” and then they +become mere wreckage. “Too much hath become clear unto me: now nothing +mattereth to me any more. Nothing liveth any longer that I love,—how +should I still love myself! Have I still a goal? Where is MY home?” + Zarathustra realises the danger threatening such a man. “Thy danger is +not small, thou free spirit and wanderer,” he says. “Thou hast had a bad +day. See that a still worse evening doth not overtake thee!” The danger +Zarathustra refers to is precisely this, that even a prison may seem a +blessing to such a man. At least the bars keep him in a place of rest; +a place of confinement, at its worst, is real. “Beware lest in the end +a narrow faith capture thee,” says Zarathustra, “for now everything that +is narrow and fixed seduceth and tempteth thee.” + +Chapter LXX. Noontide. + +At the noon of life Nietzsche said he entered the world; with him +man came of age. We are now held responsible for our actions; our old +guardians, the gods and demi-gods of our youth, the superstitions and +fears of our childhood, withdraw; the field lies open before us; we +lived through our morning with but one master—chance—; let us see to +it that we MAKE our afternoon our own (see Note XLIX., Part III.). + +Chapter LXXI. The Greeting. + +Here I think I may claim that my contention in regard to the purpose and +aim of the whole of Nietzsche’s philosophy (as stated at the beginning +of my Notes on Part IV.) is completely upheld. He fought for “all who +do not want to live, unless they learn again to HOPE—unless THEY learn +(from him) the GREAT hope!” Zarathustra’s address to his guests shows +clearly enough how he wished to help them: “I DO NOT TREAT MY WARRIORS +INDULGENTLY,” he says: “how then could ye be fit for MY warfare?” He +rebukes and spurns them, no word of love comes from his lips. Elsewhere +he says a man should be a hard bed to his friend, thus alone can he be +of use to him. Nietzsche would be a hard bed to higher men. He would +make them harder; for, in order to be a law unto himself, man must +possess the requisite hardness. “I wait for higher ones, stronger ones, +more triumphant ones, merrier ones, for such as are built squarely in +body and soul.” He says in par. 6 of “Higher Man”:— + +“Ye higher men, think ye that I am here to put right what ye have put +wrong? Or that I wished henceforth to make snugger couches for you +sufferers? Or show you restless, miswandering, misclimbing ones new and +easier footpaths?” + +“Nay! Nay! Three times nay! Always more, always better ones of your type +shall succumb—for ye shall always have it worse and harder.” + +Chapter LXXII. The Supper. + +In the first seven verses of this discourse, I cannot help seeing +a gentle allusion to Schopenhauer’s habits as a bon-vivant. For a +pessimist, be it remembered, Schopenhauer led quite an extraordinary +life. He ate well, loved well, played the flute well, and I believe he +smoked the best cigars. What follows is clear enough. + +Chapter LXXIII. The Higher Man. Par. 1. + +Nietzsche admits, here, that at one time he had thought of appealing to +the people, to the crowd in the market-place, but that he had ultimately +to abandon the task. He bids higher men depart from the market-place. + +Par. 3. + +Here we are told quite plainly what class of men actually owe all their +impulses and desires to the instinct of self-preservation. The struggle +for existence is indeed the only spur in the case of such people. +To them it matters not in what shape or condition man be preserved, +provided only he survive. The transcendental maxim that “Life per se is +precious” is the ruling maxim here. + +Par. 4. + +In the Note on Chapter LVII. (end) I speak of Nietzsche’s elevation of +the virtue, Courage, to the highest place among the virtues. Here he +tells higher men the class of courage he expects from them. + +Pars. 5, 6. + +These have already been referred to in the Notes on Chapters LVII. (end) +and LXXI. + +Par. 7. + +I suggest that the last verse in this paragraph strongly confirms the +view that Nietzsche’s teaching was always meant by him to be esoteric +and for higher man alone. + +Par. 9. + +In the last verse, here, another shaft of light is thrown upon the +Immaculate Perception or so-called “pure objectivity” of the scientific +mind. “Freedom from fever is still far from being knowledge.” Where a +man’s emotions cease to accompany him in his investigations, he is +not necessarily nearer the truth. Says Spencer, in the Preface to his +Autobiography:—“In the genesis of a system of thought, the emotional +nature is a large factor: perhaps as large a factor as the intellectual +nature” (see pages 134, 141 of Vol. I., “Thoughts out of Season”). + +Pars. 10, 11. + +When we approach Nietzsche’s philosophy we must be prepared to be +independent thinkers; in fact, the greatest virtue of his works is +perhaps the subtlety with which they impose the obligation upon one +of thinking alone, of scoring off one’s own bat, and of shifting +intellectually for oneself. + +Par. 13. + +“I am a railing alongside the torrent; whoever is able to grasp me, may +grasp me! Your crutch, however, I am not.” These two paragraphs are an +exhortation to higher men to become independent. + +Par. 15. + +Here Nietzsche perhaps exaggerates the importance of heredity. As, +however, the question is by no means one on which we are all agreed, +what he says is not without value. + +A very important principle in Nietzsche’s philosophy is enunciated in +the first verse of this paragraph. “The higher its type, always the +seldomer doth a thing succeed” (see page 82 of “Beyond Good and Evil”). +Those who, like some political economists, talk in a business-like way +about the terrific waste of human life and energy, deliberately overlook +the fact that the waste most to be deplored usually occurs among +higher individuals. Economy was never precisely one of nature’s leading +principles. All this sentimental wailing over the larger proportion +of failures than successes in human life, does not seem to take into +account the fact that it is the rarest thing on earth for a highly +organised being to attain to the fullest development and activity of all +its functions, simply because it is so highly organised. The blind Will +to Power in nature therefore stands in urgent need of direction by man. + +Pars. 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. + +These paragraphs deal with Nietzsche’s protest against the democratic +seriousness (Pobelernst) of modern times. “All good things laugh,” he +says, and his final command to the higher men is, “LEARN, I pray you—to +laugh.” All that is GOOD, in Nietzsche’s sense, is cheerful. To be able +to crack a joke about one’s deepest feelings is the greatest test of +their value. The man who does not laugh, like the man who does not make +faces, is already a buffoon at heart. + +“What hath hitherto been the greatest sin here on earth? Was it not the +word of him who said: ‘Woe unto them that laugh now!’ Did he himself +find no cause for laughter on the earth? Then he sought badly. A child +even findeth cause for it.” + +Chapter LXXIV. The Song of Melancholy. + +After his address to the higher men, Zarathustra goes out into the +open to recover himself. Meanwhile the magician (Wagner), seizing the +opportunity in order to draw them all into his net once more, sings the +Song of Melancholy. + +Chapter LXXV. Science. + +The only one to resist the “melancholy voluptuousness” of his art, is +the spiritually conscientious one—the scientific specialist of whom we +read in the discourse entitled “The Leech”. He takes the harp from the +magician and cries for air, while reproving the musician in the style +of “The Case of Wagner”. When the magician retaliates by saying that the +spiritually conscientious one could have understood little of his song, +the latter replies: “Thou praisest me in that thou separatest me from +thyself.” The speech of the scientific man to his fellow higher men is +well worth studying. By means of it, Nietzsche pays a high tribute to +the honesty of the true specialist, while, in representing him as the +only one who can resist the demoniacal influence of the magician’s +music, he elevates him at a stroke, above all those present. Zarathustra +and the spiritually conscientious one join issue at the end on the +question of the proper place of “fear” in man’s history, and Nietzsche +avails himself of the opportunity in order to restate his views +concerning the relation of courage to humanity. It is precisely because +courage has played the most important part in our development that +he would not see it vanish from among our virtues to-day. “...courage +seemeth to me the entire primitive history of man.” + +Chapter LXXVI. Among the Daughters of the Desert. + +This tells its own tale. + +Chapter LXXVII. The Awakening. + +In this discourse, Nietzsche wishes to give his followers a warning. +He thinks he has so far helped them that they have become convalescent, +that new desires are awakened in them and that new hopes are in their +arms and legs. But he mistakes the nature of the change. True, he has +helped them, he has given them back what they most need, i.e., belief in +believing—the confidence in having confidence in something, but how +do they use it? This belief in faith, if one can so express it without +seeming tautological, has certainly been restored to them, and in +the first flood of their enthusiasm they use it by bowing down and +worshipping an ass! When writing this passage, Nietzsche was obviously +thinking of the accusations which were levelled at the early Christians +by their pagan contemporaries. It is well known that they were supposed +not only to be eaters of human flesh but also ass-worshippers, and among +the Roman graffiti, the most famous is the one found on the Palatino, +showing a man worshipping a cross on which is suspended a figure +with the head of an ass (see Minucius Felix, “Octavius” IX.; Tacitus, +“Historiae” v. 3; Tertullian, “Apologia”, etc.). Nietzsche’s obvious +moral, however, is that great scientists and thinkers, once they have +reached the wall encircling scepticism and have thereby learned to +recover their confidence in the act of believing, as such, usually +manifest the change in their outlook by falling victims to the narrowest +and most superstitious of creeds. So much for the introduction of the +ass as an object of worship. + +Now, with regard to the actual service and Ass-Festival, no reader who +happens to be acquainted with the religious history of the Middle Ages +will fail to see the allusion here to the asinaria festa which were by +no means uncommon in France, Germany, and elsewhere in Europe during the +thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. + +Chapter LXXVIII. The Ass-Festival. + +At length, in the middle of their feast, Zarathustra bursts in upon +them and rebukes them soundly. But he does not do so long; in the +Ass-Festival, it suddenly occurs to him, that he is concerned with a +ceremony that may not be without its purpose, as something foolish but +necessary—a recreation for wise men. He is therefore highly pleased +that the higher men have all blossomed forth; they therefore require +new festivals,—“A little valiant nonsense, some divine service and +ass-festival, some old joyful Zarathustra fool, some blusterer to blow +their souls bright.” + +He tells them not to forget that night and the ass-festival, for “such +things only the convalescent devise! And should ye celebrate it again,” + he concludes, “do it from love to yourselves, do it also from love to +me! And in remembrance of ME!” + +Chapter LXXIX. The Drunken Song. + +It were the height of presumption to attempt to fix any particular +interpretation of my own to the words of this song. With what has gone +before, the reader, while reading it as poetry, should be able to seek +and find his own meaning in it. The doctrine of the Eternal Recurrence +appears for the last time here, in an art-form. Nietzsche lays stress +upon the fact that all happiness, all delight, longs for repetitions, +and just as a child cries “Again! Again!” to the adult who happens to +be amusing him; so the man who sees a meaning, and a joyful meaning, in +existence must also cry “Again!” and yet “Again!” to all his life. + +Chapter LXXX. The Sign. + +In this discourse, Nietzsche disassociates himself finally from the +higher men, and by the symbol of the lion, wishes to convey to us that +he has won over and mastered the best and the most terrible in nature. +That great power and tenderness are kin, was already his belief in +1875—eight years before he wrote this speech, and when the birds and +the lion come to him, it is because he is the embodiment of the two +qualities. All that is terrible and great in nature, the higher men are +not yet prepared for; for they retreat horror-stricken into the cave +when the lion springs at them; but Zarathustra makes not a move towards +them. He was tempted to them on the previous day, he says, but “That +hath had its time! My suffering and my fellow-suffering,—what matter +about them! Do I then strive after HAPPINESS? I strive after my work! +Well! the lion hath come, my children are nigh. Zarathustra hath grown +ripe. MY day beginneth: ARISE NOW, ARISE, THOU GREAT NOONDAY!” + + ... + +The above I know to be open to much criticism. I shall be grateful to +all those who will be kind enough to show me where and how I have gone +wrong; but I should like to point out that, as they stand, I have not +given to these Notes by any means their final form. + +ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI. + +London, February 1909. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA *** + + +***** This file should be named 1998-0.txt or 1998-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/9/1998/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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