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diff --git a/1998-h/1998-h.htm b/1998-h/1998-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..621c064 --- /dev/null +++ b/1998-h/1998-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20676 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>Thus Spake Zarathustra, by Friedrich Nietzsche | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> +<style> + body { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify;} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + +.ph2, .ph3 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } +.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } +.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2,h3 {page-break-before: avoid;} +.big {font-size: x-large;} +.pre {white-space: pre;} + </style> + </head> + <body> +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Thus Spake Zarathustra, by Friedrich Nietzsche</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Thus Spake Zarathustra<br> +A Book for All and None</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Friedrich Nietzsche</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Thomas Common</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December, 1999 [eBook #1998]<br> +[Most recently updated: April 10, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Sue Asscher and David Widger +<br>Revised by Richard Tonsing.</div> + + <div class="mynote"> + <p> + PG Editor’s Note: + </p> + <p> + Archaic spelling and punctuation usages have not been changed from the + original. In particular, quotations are often not closed for several + paragraphs. + </p> + DW <br> + </div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA ***</div> + + <h1> + THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA<br> + + <span class='ph2'>A BOOK FOR ALL AND NONE</span> + </h1> + <p> + <br> + </p> + + <div class='ph2'>By Friedrich Nietzsche</div> + + <p> + <br><br> + </p> + + <div class='ph3'>Translated By Thomas Common</div> + + <p> + <br><br> + </p> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <blockquote> + <div class="toc"> + <div class='chapter'><h2>CONTENTS.</h2></div> + </div> + <p> + <br> <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION BY MRS FORSTER-NIETZSCHE. + </a><br><br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <span class='big'><b>THUS SPAKE + ZARATHUSTRA.</b></span> </a> <br><br> <br> <b><a href="#link2H_4_0003"> + FIRST PART.</a></b> + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ZARATHUSTRA’S PROLOGUE. </a> + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES. </a> + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> I. </a> THE THREE + METAMORPHOSES. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> II. </a> THE + ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF VIRTUE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> III. + </a> BACKWORLDSMEN. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IV. + </a> THE DESPISERS OF THE BODY. <br><br> <a + href="#link2H_4_0010"> V. </a> JOYS AND PASSIONS. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> VI. </a> THE PALE CRIMINAL. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> VII. </a> READING AND WRITING. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> VIII. </a> THE TREE ON + THE HILL. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> IX. </a> THE + PREACHERS OF DEATH. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> X. </a> WAR + AND WARRIORS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XI. </a> THE + NEW IDOL. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XII. </a> THE + FLIES IN THE MARKET-PLACE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XIII. + </a> CHASTITY. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIV. </a> THE + FRIEND. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XV. </a> THE + THOUSAND AND ONE GOALS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XVI. </a> NEIGHBOUR-LOVE. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XVII. </a> THE WAY OF + THE CREATING ONE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XVIII. </a> OLD + AND YOUNG WOMEN. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XIX. </a> THE + BITE OF THE ADDER. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XX. </a> CHILD + AND MARRIAGE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXI. </a> VOLUNTARY + DEATH. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> XXII. </a> THE + BESTOWING VIRTUE. <br><br><br> <b><a href="#link2H_4_0028">SECOND PART. </a></b> <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> XXIII. </a> THE CHILD WITH THE + MIRROR. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> XXIV. </a> IN + THE HAPPY ISLES. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> XXV. </a> THE + PITIFUL. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> XXVI. </a> THE + PRIESTS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> XXVII. </a> THE + VIRTUOUS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> XXVIII. </a> THE + RABBLE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> XXIX. </a> THE + TARANTULAS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> XXX. </a> THE + FAMOUS WISE ONES. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> XXXI. </a> THE + NIGHT-SONG. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> XXXII. </a> THE + DANCE-SONG. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> XXXIII. </a> THE + GRAVE-SONG. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> XXXIV. </a> SELF-SURPASSING. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> XXXV. </a> THE SUBLIME + ONES. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> XXXVI. </a> THE + LAND OF CULTURE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> XXXVII. </a> IMMACULATE + PERCEPTION. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> XXXVIII. </a> SCHOLARS. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> XXXIX. </a> POETS. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> XL. </a> GREAT EVENTS. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> XLI. </a> THE SOOTHSAYER. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> XLII. </a> REDEMPTION. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> XLIII. </a> MANLY PRUDENCE. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> XLIV. </a> THE STILLEST HOUR. <br><br><br> + <b><a href="#link2H_4_0051"> THIRD PART. </a></b> + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> XLV. </a> THE WANDERER. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> XLVI. </a> THE VISION + AND THE ENIGMA. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> XLVII. </a> INVOLUNTARY + BLISS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> XLVIII. </a> BEFORE + SUNRISE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> XLIX. </a> THE + BEDWARFING VIRTUE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> L. </a> ON + THE OLIVE-MOUNT. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> LI. </a> ON + PASSING-BY. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> LII. </a> THE + APOSTATES. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> LIII. </a> THE + RETURN HOME. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> LIV. </a> THE + THREE EVIL THINGS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> LV. </a> THE + SPIRIT OF GRAVITY. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> LVI. </a> OLD + AND NEW TABLES. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> LVII. </a> THE + CONVALESCENT. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> LVIII. </a> THE + GREAT LONGING. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> LIX. </a> THE + SECOND DANCE-SONG. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> LX. </a> THE + SEVEN SEALS. <br><br><br> <b><a href="#link2H_4_0068"> FOURTH AND + LAST PART. </a></b> <br><br> <a + href="#link2H_4_0069"> LXI. </a> THE HONEY SACRIFICE. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> LXII. </a> THE CRY OF DISTRESS. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> LXIII. </a> TALK WITH + THE KINGS. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> LXIV. </a> THE + LEECH. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> LXV. </a> THE + MAGICIAN. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> LXVI. </a> OUT + OF SERVICE. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> LXVII. </a> THE + UGLIEST MAN. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> LXVIII. </a> THE + VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> LXIX. </a> THE + SHADOW. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> LXX. </a> NOON-TIDE. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> LXXI. </a> THE GREETING. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> LXXII. </a> THE SUPPER. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> LXXIII. </a> THE HIGHER + MAN. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> LXXIV. </a> THE + SONG OF MELANCHOLY. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> LXXV. </a> SCIENCE. + <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> LXXVI. </a> AMONG + DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> LXXVII. + </a> THE AWAKENING. <br><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> + LXXVIII. </a> THE ASS-FESTIVAL. <br><br> <a + href="#link2H_4_0087"> LXXIX. </a> THE DRUNKEN SONG. <br><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> LXXX. </a> THE SIGN. <br><br><br><br> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_APPE"> <b>APPENDIX.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> NOTES ON “THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA” BY ANTHONY M. + LUDOVICI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> PART I. THE PROLOGUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter I. The Three Metamorphoses. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter II. The Academic Chairs of Virtue. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter IV. The Despisers of the Body. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter IX. The Preachers of Death. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter XV. The Thousand and One Goals. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter XVIII. Old and Young Women. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter XXI. Voluntary Death. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter XXII. The Bestowing Virtue. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> PART II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter XXIII. The Child with the Mirror. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter XXIV. In the Happy Isles. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> Chapter XXIX. The Tarantulas. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> Chapter XXX. The Famous Wise Ones. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> Chapter XXXIII. The Grave-Song. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> Chapter XXXIV. Self-Surpassing. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> Chapter XXXV. The Sublime Ones. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> Chapter XXXVI. The Land of Culture. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> Chapter XXXVII. Immaculate Perception. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> Chapter XXXVIII. Scholars. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> Chapter XXXIX. Poets. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> Chapter XL. Great Events. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> Chapter XLI. The Soothsayer. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> Chapter XLII. Redemption. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> Chapter XLIII. Manly Prudence. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> Chapter XLIV. The Stillest Hour. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> PART III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> Chapter XLVI. The Vision and the Enigma. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> Chapter XLVII. Involuntary Bliss. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> Chapter XLVIII. Before Sunrise. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> Chapter XLIX. The Bedwarfing Virtue. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> Chapter LI. On Passing-by. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> Chapter LII. The Apostates. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> Chapter LIII. The Return Home. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> Chapter LIV. The Three Evil Things. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> Chapter LV. The Spirit of Gravity. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> Chapter LVI. Old and New Tables. Par. 2. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> Chapter LVII. The Convalescent. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> Chapter LX. The Seven Seals. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART4"> PART IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> Chapter LXI. The Honey Sacrifice. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> Chapter LXII. The Cry of Distress. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> Chapter LXIII. Talk with the Kings. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> Chapter LXIV. The Leech. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> Chapter LXV. The Magician. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> Chapter LXVI. Out of Service. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> Chapter LXVII. The Ugliest Man. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> Chapter LXVIII. The Voluntary Beggar. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> Chapter LXIX. The Shadow. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> Chapter LXX. Noontide. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> Chapter LXXI. The Greeting. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> Chapter LXXII. The Supper. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> Chapter LXXIII. The Higher Man. Par. 1. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> Chapter LXXIV. The Song of Melancholy. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> Chapter LXXV. Science. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> Chapter LXXVI. Among the Daughters of the + Desert. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> Chapter LXXVII. The Awakening. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> Chapter LXXVIII. The Ass-Festival. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> Chapter LXXIX. The Drunken Song. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> Chapter LXXX. The Sign. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> <a id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + INTRODUCTION BY MRS FORSTER-NIETZSCHE. + </h2></div> + + <div class='ph3'>HOW ZARATHUSTRA CAME INTO BEING.</div> + + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + “How can one praise and glorify a nation as a whole?—Even among the + Greeks, it was the INDIVIDUALS that counted.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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”: + </p> + <p> + “Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, the + greatest and the smallest man:— + </p> + <p> + All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily even the greatest + found I—all-too-human!”— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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”:— + </p> + <p> + “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’.” + </p> + <p> + “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!— + </p> + <p> + “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...” + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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”:— + </p> + <p> + “MIDDAY AND ETERNITY.” “GUIDE-POSTS TO A NEW WAY OF LIVING.” + </p> + <p> + Beneath this is written:— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + “—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!—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE. + </p> + <p> + Nietzsche Archives, + </p> + <p> + Weimar, December 1905. + </p> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> <a id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + FIRST PART. ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES. + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + ZARATHUSTRA’S PROLOGUE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 1. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + Thou great star! What would be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for + whom thou shinest! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow and + blessed thee for it. + </p> + <p> + Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much + honey; I need hands outstretched to take it. + </p> + <p> + I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more become + joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Like thee must I GO DOWN, as men say, to whom I shall descend. + </p> + <p> + Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even the greatest + happiness without envy! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again + going to be a man. + </p> + <p> + Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going. + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “No stranger to me is this wanderer: many years ago passed he by. + Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered. + </p> + <p> + Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: wilt thou now carry + thy fire into the valleys? Fearest thou not the incendiary’s doom? + </p> + <p> + Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathing lurketh + about his mouth. Goeth he not along like a dancer? + </p> + <p> + Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one + is Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers? + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it + not because I loved men far too well? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Zarathustra answered: “What spake I of love! I am bringing gifts unto + men.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them no more than an alms, and + let them also beg for it!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Zarathustra, “I give no alms. I am not poor enough for + that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “And what doeth the saint in the forest?” asked Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + The saint answered: “I make hymns and sing them; and in making hymns I + laugh and weep and mumble: thus do I praise God. + </p> + <p> + With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise the God who is + my God. But what dost thou bring us as a gift?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + I TEACH YOU THE SUPERMAN. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What + have ye done to surpass man? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and + phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants? + </p> + <p> + Lo, I teach you the Superman! + </p> + <p> + The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Superman + SHALL BE the meaning of the earth! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of + whom the earth is weary: so away with them! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was + the delight of that soul! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted + stream without becoming impure. + </p> + <p> + Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that sea; in him can your great + contempt be submerged. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! would that I had + heard you crying thus! + </p> + <p> + It is not your sin—it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto + heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven! + </p> + <p> + Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy + with which ye should be inoculated? + </p> + <p> + Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 4. + </p> + <p> + Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spake + thus: + </p> + <p> + Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope + over an abyss. + </p> + <p> + A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a + dangerous trembling and halting. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for they are + the over-goers. + </p> + <p> + I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows + of longing for the other shore. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I love him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will to down-going, + and an arrow of longing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth the past ones: + for he is willing to succumb through the present ones. + </p> + <p> + I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God: for he must + succumb through the wrath of his God. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: the + lightning, however, is the SUPERMAN.— + </p> + <p> + 5. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They dislike, therefore, to hear of ‘contempt’ of themselves. So I will + appeal to their pride. + </p> + <p> + I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is + THE LAST MAN!” + </p> + <p> + And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people: + </p> + <p> + It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ + of his highest hope. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN. + </p> + <p> + “What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”—so + asketh the last man and blinketh. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We have discovered happiness”—say the last men, and blink thereby. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. + He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones or men! + </p> + <p> + A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much poison + at last for a pleasant death. + </p> + <p> + One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the + pastime should hurt one. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No shepherd, and one herd! Every one wanteth the same; every one is equal: + he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the madhouse. + </p> + <p> + “Formerly all the world was insane,”—say the subtlest of them, and + blink thereby. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures + for the night, but they have a regard for health. + </p> + <p> + “We have discovered happiness,”—say the last men, and blink thereby.— + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “They understand me not: I am not the mouth for these ears. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they + think me cold, and a mocker with terrible jests. + </p> + <p> + And now do they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me + too. There is ice in their laughter.” + </p> + <p> + 6. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 7. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made to-day! It is not a man + he hath caught, but a corpse. + </p> + <p> + Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon may be fateful + to it. + </p> + <p> + I want to teach men the sense of their existence, which is the Superman, + the lightning out of the dark cloud—man. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 8. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hunger attacketh me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. Among forests and + swamps my hunger attacketh me, and late in the night. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 9. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + A light hath dawned upon me: I need companions—living ones; not dead + companions and corpses, which I carry with me where I will. + </p> + <p> + But I need living companions, who will follow me because they want to + follow themselves—and to the place where I will. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the good and just. Herdsmen, I + say, but they call themselves the believers in the orthodox belief. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh; fellow-reapers and fellow-rejoicers, + Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do with herds and herdsmen and + corpses! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But I part from thee; the time hath arrived. ‘Twixt rosy dawn and rosy + dawn there came unto me a new truth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers will I associate: the + rainbow will I show them, and all the stairs to the Superman. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 10. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “They are mine animals,” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his heart. + </p> + <p> + “The proudest animal under the sun, and the wisest animal under the sun,—they + have come out to reconnoitre. + </p> + <p> + They want to know whether Zarathustra still liveth. Verily, do I still + live? + </p> + <p> + More dangerous have I found it among men than among animals; in dangerous + paths goeth Zarathustra. Let mine animals lead me!” + </p> + <p> + When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered the words of the saint in + the forest. Then he sighed and spake thus to his heart: + </p> + <p> + “Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise from the very heart, like + my serpent! + </p> + <p> + But I am asking the impossible. Therefore do I ask my pride to go always + with my wisdom! + </p> + <p> + And if my wisdom should some day forsake me:—alas! it loveth to fly + away!—may my pride then fly with my folly!” + </p> + <p> + Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES. + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I. THE THREE METAMORPHOSES. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What is heavy? so asketh the load-bearing spirit; then kneeleth it down + like the camel, and wanteth to be well laden. + </p> + <p> + What is the heaviest thing, ye heroes? asketh the load-bearing spirit, + that I may take it upon me and rejoice in my strength. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Or is it this: To desert our cause when it celebrateth its triumph? To + ascend high mountains to tempt the tempter? + </p> + <p> + Or is it this: To feed on the acorns and grass of knowledge, and for the + sake of truth to suffer hunger of soul? + </p> + <p> + Or is it this: To be sick and dismiss comforters, and make friends of the + deaf, who never hear thy requests? + </p> + <p> + Or is it this: To go into foul water when it is the water of truth, and + not disclaim cold frogs and hot toads? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt,” lieth in its path, sparkling with gold—a scale-covered + beast; and on every scale glittereth golden, “Thou shalt!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My brethren, wherefore is there need of the lion in the spirit? Why + sufficeth not the beast of burden, which renounceth and is reverent? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To create itself freedom, and give a holy Nay even unto duty: for that, my + brethren, there is need of the lion. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Innocence is the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a + self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. And at that time he abode in the town which is + called The Pied Cow. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + II. THE ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF VIRTUE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No small art is it to sleep: it is necessary for that purpose to keep + awake all day. + </p> + <p> + Ten times a day must thou overcome thyself: that causeth wholesome + weariness, and is poppy to the soul. + </p> + <p> + Ten times must thou reconcile again with thyself; for overcoming is + bitterness, and badly sleep the unreconciled. + </p> + <p> + Ten truths must thou find during the day; otherwise wilt thou seek truth + during the night, and thy soul will have been hungry. + </p> + <p> + Ten times must thou laugh during the day, and be cheerful; otherwise thy + stomach, the father of affliction, will disturb thee in the night. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Shall I covet my neighbour’s maidservant? All that would ill accord with + good sleep. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That they may not quarrel with one another, the good females! And about + thee, thou unhappy one! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + He who leadeth his sheep to the greenest pasture, shall always be for me + the best shepherd: so doth it accord with good sleep. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Well, also, do the poor in spirit please me: they promote sleep. Blessed + are they, especially if one always give in to them. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + And what were the ten reconciliations, and the ten truths, and the ten + laughters with which my heart enjoyed itself? + </p> + <p> + Thus pondering, and cradled by forty thoughts, it overtaketh me all at + once—sleep, the unsummoned, the lord of the virtues. + </p> + <p> + Sleep tappeth on mine eye, and it turneth heavy. Sleep toucheth my mouth, + and it remaineth open. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But not much longer do I then stand: I already lie.— + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + A fool seemeth this wise man with his forty thoughts: but I believe he + knoweth well how to sleep. + </p> + <p> + Happy even is he who liveth near this wise man! Such sleep is contagious—even + through a thick wall it is contagious. + </p> + <p> + A magic resideth even in his academic chair. And not in vain did the + youths sit before the preacher of virtue. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + To all those belauded sages of the academic chairs, wisdom was sleep + without dreams: they knew no higher significance of life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Blessed are those drowsy ones: for they shall soon nod to sleep.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + III. BACKWORLDSMEN. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The dream—and diction—of a God, did the world then seem to me; + coloured vapours before the eyes of a divinely dissatisfied one. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus, once on a time, did I also cast my fancy beyond man, like all + backworldsmen. Beyond man, forsooth? + </p> + <p> + Ah, ye brethren, that God whom I created was human work and human madness, + like all the Gods! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Suffering was it, and impotence—that created all backworlds; and the + short madness of happiness, which only the greatest sufferer experienceth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Believe me, my brethren! It was the body which despaired of the earth—it + heard the bowels of existence speaking unto it. + </p> + <p> + And then it sought to get through the ultimate walls with its head—and + not with its head only—into “the other world.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Hearken rather, my brethren, to the voice of the healthy body; it is a + more upright and pure voice. + </p> + <p> + More uprightly and purely speaketh the healthy body, perfect and + square-built; and it speaketh of the meaning of the earth.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + IV. THE DESPISERS OF THE BODY. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Body am I, and soul”—so saith the child. And why should one not + speak like children? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The body is a big sagacity, a plurality with one sense, a war and a peace, + a flock and a shepherd. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ever hearkeneth the Self, and seeketh; it compareth, mastereth, + conquereth, and destroyeth. It ruleth, and is also the ego’s ruler. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There is more sagacity in thy body than in thy best wisdom. And who then + knoweth why thy body requireth just thy best wisdom? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But it is now too late to do so:—so your Self wisheth to succumb, ye + despisers of the body. + </p> + <p> + To succumb—so wisheth your Self; and therefore have ye become + despisers of the body. For ye can no longer create beyond yourselves. + </p> + <p> + And therefore are ye now angry with life and with the earth. And + unconscious envy is in the sidelong look of your contempt. + </p> + <p> + I go not your way, ye despisers of the body! Ye are no bridges for me to + the Superman!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + V. JOYS AND PASSIONS. + </h2></div> + <p> + My brother, when thou hast a virtue, and it is thine own virtue, thou hast + it in common with no one. + </p> + <p> + To be sure, thou wouldst call it by name and caress it; thou wouldst pull + its ears and amuse thyself with it. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus speak and stammer: “That is MY good, that do I love, thus doth it + please me entirely, thus only do <i>I</i> desire the good. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + An earthly virtue is it which I love: little prudence is therein, and the + least everyday wisdom. + </p> + <p> + But that bird built its nest beside me: therefore, I love and cherish it—now + sitteth it beside me on its golden eggs.” + </p> + <p> + Thus shouldst thou stammer, and praise thy virtue. + </p> + <p> + Once hadst thou passions and calledst them evil. But now hast thou only + thy virtues: they grew out of thy passions. + </p> + <p> + Thou implantedst thy highest aim into the heart of those passions: then + became they thy virtues and joys. + </p> + <p> + And though thou wert of the race of the hot-tempered, or of the + voluptuous, or of the fanatical, or the vindictive; + </p> + <p> + All thy passions in the end became virtues, and all thy devils angels. + </p> + <p> + Once hadst thou wild dogs in thy cellar: but they changed at last into + birds and charming songstresses. + </p> + <p> + Out of thy poisons brewedst thou balsam for thyself; thy cow, affliction, + milkedst thou—now drinketh thou the sweet milk of her udder. + </p> + <p> + And nothing evil groweth in thee any longer, unless it be the evil that + groweth out of the conflict of thy virtues. + </p> + <p> + My brother, if thou be fortunate, then wilt thou have one virtue and no + more: thus goest thou easier over the bridge. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Jealous is every virtue of the others, and a dreadful thing is jealousy. + Even virtues may succumb by jealousy. + </p> + <p> + He whom the flame of jealousy encompasseth, turneth at last, like the + scorpion, the poisoned sting against himself. + </p> + <p> + Ah! my brother, hast thou never seen a virtue backbite and stab itself? + </p> + <p> + Man is something that hath to be surpassed: and therefore shalt thou love + thy virtues,—for thou wilt succumb by them.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + VI. THE PALE CRIMINAL. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + When he judged himself—that was his supreme moment; let not the + exalted one relapse again into his low estate! + </p> + <p> + There is no salvation for him who thus suffereth from himself, unless it + be speedy death. + </p> + <p> + Your slaying, ye judges, shall be pity, and not revenge; and in that ye + slay, see to it that ye yourselves justify life! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Enemy” shall ye say but not “villain,” “invalid” shall ye say but not + “wretch,” “fool” shall ye say but not “sinner.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The streak of chalk bewitcheth the hen; the stroke he struck bewitched his + weak reason. Madness AFTER the deed, I call this. + </p> + <p> + Hearken, ye judges! There is another madness besides, and it is BEFORE the + deed. Ah! ye have not gone deep enough into this soul! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Could he only shake his head, then would his burden roll off; but who + shaketh that head? + </p> + <p> + What is this man? A mass of diseases that reach out into the world through + the spirit; there they want to get their prey. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I am a railing alongside the torrent; whoever is able to grasp me may + grasp me! Your crutch, however, I am not.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + VII. READING AND WRITING. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate the reading + idlers. + </p> + <p> + He who knoweth the reader, doeth nothing more for the reader. Another + century of readers—and spirit itself will stink. + </p> + <p> + Every one being allowed to learn to read, ruineth in the long run not only + writing but also thinking. + </p> + <p> + Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becometh + populace. + </p> + <p> + He that writeth in blood and proverbs doth not want to be read, but learnt + by heart. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joyful + wickedness: thus are things well matched. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ye look aloft when ye long for exaltation; and I look downward because I + am exalted. + </p> + <p> + Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted? + </p> + <p> + He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays and + tragic realities. + </p> + <p> + Courageous, unconcerned, scornful, coercive—so wisdom wisheth us; + she is a woman, and ever loveth only a warrior. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Life is hard to bear: but do not affect to be so delicate! We are all of + us fine sumpter asses and assesses. + </p> + <p> + What have we in common with the rose-bud, which trembleth because a drop + of dew hath formed upon it? + </p> + <p> + It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we + are wont to love. + </p> + <p> + There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some + method in madness. + </p> + <p> + And to me also, who appreciate life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, + and whatever is like them amongst us, seem most to enjoy happiness. + </p> + <p> + To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about—that + moveth Zarathustra to tears and songs. + </p> + <p> + I should only believe in a God that would know how to dance. + </p> + <p> + And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: + he was the spirit of gravity—through him all things fall. + </p> + <p> + Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we slay. Come, let us slay the spirit of + gravity! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Now am I light, now do I fly; now do I see myself under myself. Now there + danceth a God in me.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + VIII. THE TREE ON THE HILL. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “If I wished to shake this tree with my hands, I should not be able to do + so. + </p> + <p> + But the wind, which we see not, troubleth and bendeth it as it listeth. We + are sorest bent and troubled by invisible hands.” + </p> + <p> + Thereupon the youth arose disconcerted, and said: “I hear Zarathustra, and + just now was I thinking of him!” Zarathustra answered: + </p> + <p> + “Why art thou frightened on that account?—But it is the same with + man as with the tree. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth. “How is it possible that thou hast + discovered my soul?” + </p> + <p> + Zarathustra smiled, and said: “Many a soul one will never discover, unless + one first invent it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth once more. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside + which they stood, and spake thus: + </p> + <p> + “This tree standeth lonely here on the hills; it hath grown up high above + man and beast. + </p> + <p> + And if it wanted to speak, it would have none who could understand it: so + high hath it grown. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And when they had walked a while together, Zarathustra began to speak + thus: + </p> + <p> + It rendeth my heart. Better than thy words express it, thine eyes tell me + all thy danger. + </p> + <p> + As yet thou art not free; thou still SEEKEST freedom. Too unslept hath thy + seeking made thee, and too wakeful. + </p> + <p> + On the open height wouldst thou be; for the stars thirsteth thy soul. But + thy bad impulses also thirst for freedom. + </p> + <p> + Thy wild dogs want liberty; they bark for joy in their cellar when thy + spirit endeavoureth to open all prison doors. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yea, I know thy danger. But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not + thy love and hope away! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The new, would the noble man create, and a new virtue. The old, wanteth + the good man, and that the old should be conserved. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ah! I have known noble ones who lost their highest hope. And then they + disparaged all high hopes. + </p> + <p> + Then lived they shamelessly in temporary pleasures, and beyond the day had + hardly an aim. + </p> + <p> + “Spirit is also voluptuousness,”—said they. Then broke the wings of + their spirit; and now it creepeth about, and defileth where it gnaweth. + </p> + <p> + Once they thought of becoming heroes; but sensualists are they now. A + trouble and a terror is the hero to them. + </p> + <p> + But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not away the hero in thy + soul! Maintain holy thy highest hope!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + IX. THE PREACHERS OF DEATH. + </h2></div> + <p> + There are preachers of death: and the earth is full of those to whom + desistance from life must be preached. + </p> + <p> + 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”! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They have not yet become men, those terrible ones: may they preach + desistance from life, and pass away themselves! + </p> + <p> + There are the spiritually consumptive ones: hardly are they born when they + begin to die, and long for doctrines of lassitude and renunciation. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + They meet an invalid, or an old man, or a corpse—and immediately + they say: “Life is refuted!” + </p> + <p> + But they only are refuted, and their eye, which seeth only one aspect of + existence. + </p> + <p> + Shrouded in thick melancholy, and eager for the little casualties that + bring death: thus do they wait, and clench their teeth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Their wisdom speaketh thus: “A fool, he who remaineth alive; but so far + are we fools! And that is the foolishest thing in life!” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + And let this be the teaching of your virtue: “Thou shalt slay thyself! + Thou shalt steal away from thyself!”— + </p> + <p> + “Lust is sin,”—so say some who preach death—“let us go apart + and beget no children!” + </p> + <p> + “Giving birth is troublesome,”—say others—“why still give + birth? One beareth only the unfortunate!” And they also are preachers of + death. + </p> + <p> + “Pity is necessary,”—so saith a third party. “Take what I have! Take + what I am! So much less doth life bind me!” + </p> + <p> + Were they consistently pitiful, then would they make their neighbours sick + of life. To be wicked—that would be their true goodness. + </p> + <p> + But they want to be rid of life; what care they if they bind others still + faster with their chains and gifts!— + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Everywhere resoundeth the voices of those who preach death; and the earth + is full of those to whom death hath to be preached. + </p> + <p> + Or “life eternal”; it is all the same to me—if only they pass away + quickly!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + X. WAR AND WARRIORS. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars—and the short peace more + than the long. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Ye say it is the good cause which halloweth even war? I say unto you: it + is the good war which halloweth every cause. + </p> + <p> + War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your + sympathy, but your bravery hath hitherto saved the victims. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ye are ugly? Well then, my brethren, take the sublime about you, the + mantle of the ugly! + </p> + <p> + And when your soul becometh great, then doth it become haughty, and in + your sublimity there is wickedness. I know you. + </p> + <p> + In wickedness the haughty man and the weakling meet. But they + misunderstand one another. I know you. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Resistance—that is the distinction of the slave. Let your + distinction be obedience. Let your commanding itself be obeying! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let your love to life be love to your highest hope; and let your highest + hope be the highest thought of life! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + So live your life of obedience and of war! What matter about long life! + What warrior wisheth to be spared! + </p> + <p> + I spare you not, I love you from my very heart, my brethren in war!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XI. THE NEW IDOL. + </h2></div> + <p> + Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but not with us, my brethren: + here there are states. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + It is a lie! Creators were they who created peoples, and hung a faith and + a love over them: thus they served life. + </p> + <p> + Destroyers, are they who lay snares for many, and call it the state: they + hang a sword and a hundred cravings over them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But the state lieth in all languages of good and evil; and whatever it + saith it lieth; and whatever it hath it hath stolen. + </p> + <p> + False is everything in it; with stolen teeth it biteth, the biting one. + False are even its bowels. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Many too many are born: for the superfluous ones was the state devised! + </p> + <p> + See just how it enticeth them to it, the many-too-many! How it swalloweth + and cheweth and recheweth them! + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Ah! even in your ears, ye great souls, it whispereth its gloomy lies! Ah! + it findeth out the rich hearts which willingly lavish themselves! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Yea, a dying for many hath here been devised, which glorifieth itself as + life: verily, a hearty service unto all preachers of death! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + See them clamber, these nimble apes! They clamber over one another, and + thus scuffle into the mud and the abyss. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My brethren, will ye suffocate in the fumes of their maws and appetites! + Better break the windows and jump into the open air! + </p> + <p> + Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the idolatry of the + superfluous! + </p> + <p> + Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the steam of these + human sacrifices! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Open still remaineth a free life for great souls. Verily, he who + possesseth little is so much the less possessed: blessed be moderate + poverty! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There, where the state CEASETH—pray look thither, my brethren! Do ye + not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the Superman?— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XII. THE FLIES IN THE MARKET-PLACE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the world even the best things are worthless without those who + represent them: those representers, the people call great men. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Spirit, hath the actor, but little conscience of the spirit. He believeth + always in that wherewith he maketh believe most strongly—in HIMSELF! + </p> + <p> + To-morrow he hath a new belief, and the day after, one still newer. Sharp + perceptions hath he, like the people, and changeable humours. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On account of those abrupt ones, return into thy security: only in the + market-place is one assailed by Yea? or Nay? + </p> + <p> + Slow is the experience of all deep fountains: long have they to wait until + they know WHAT hath fallen into their depths. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Flee, my friend, into thy solitude: I see thee stung all over by the + poisonous flies. Flee thither, where a rough, strong breeze bloweth! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Raise no longer an arm against them! Innumerable are they, and it is not + thy lot to be a fly-flap. + </p> + <p> + Innumerable are the small and pitiable ones; and of many a proud + structure, rain-drops and weeds have been the ruin. + </p> + <p> + Thou art not stone; but already hast thou become hollow by the numerous + drops. Thou wilt yet break and burst by the numerous drops. + </p> + <p> + Exhausted I see thee, by poisonous flies; bleeding I see thee, and torn at + a hundred spots; and thy pride will not even upbraid. + </p> + <p> + Blood they would have from thee in all innocence; blood their bloodless + souls crave for—and they sting, therefore, in all innocence. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Too proud art thou to kill these sweet-tooths. But take care lest it be + thy fate to suffer all their poisonous injustice! + </p> + <p> + They buzz around thee also with their praise: obtrusiveness, is their + praise. They want to be close to thy skin and thy blood. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They punish thee for all thy virtues. They pardon thee in their inmost + hearts only—for thine errors. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Even when thou art gentle towards them, they still feel themselves + despised by thee; and they repay thy beneficence with secret maleficence. + </p> + <p> + Thy silent pride is always counter to their taste; they rejoice if once + thou be humble enough to be frivolous. + </p> + <p> + What we recognise in a man, we also irritate in him. Therefore be on your + guard against the small ones! + </p> + <p> + In thy presence they feel themselves small, and their baseness gleameth + and gloweth against thee in invisible vengeance. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies; what is great in thee—that + itself must make them more poisonous, and always more fly-like. + </p> + <p> + Flee, my friend, into thy solitude—and thither, where a rough strong + breeze bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XIII. CHASTITY. + </h2></div> + <p> + I love the forest. It is bad to live in cities: there, there are too many + of the lustful. + </p> + <p> + Is it not better to fall into the hands of a murderer, than into the + dreams of a lustful woman? + </p> + <p> + And just look at these men: their eye saith it—they know nothing + better on earth than to lie with a woman. + </p> + <p> + Filth is at the bottom of their souls; and alas! if their filth hath still + spirit in it! + </p> + <p> + Would that ye were perfect—at least as animals! But to animals + belongeth innocence. + </p> + <p> + Do I counsel you to slay your instincts? I counsel you to innocence in + your instincts. + </p> + <p> + Do I counsel you to chastity? Chastity is a virtue with some, but with + many almost a vice. + </p> + <p> + These are continent, to be sure: but doggish lust looketh enviously out of + all that they do. + </p> + <p> + Even into the heights of their virtue and into their cold spirit doth this + creature follow them, with its discord. + </p> + <p> + And how nicely can doggish lust beg for a piece of spirit, when a piece of + flesh is denied it! + </p> + <p> + Ye love tragedies and all that breaketh the heart? But I am distrustful of + your doggish lust. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + And also this parable give I unto you: Not a few who meant to cast out + their devil, went thereby into the swine themselves. + </p> + <p> + To whom chastity is difficult, it is to be dissuaded: lest it become the + road to hell—to filth and lust of soul. + </p> + <p> + Do I speak of filthy things? That is not the worst thing for me to do. + </p> + <p> + Not when the truth is filthy, but when it is shallow, doth the discerning + one go unwillingly into its waters. + </p> + <p> + Verily, there are chaste ones from their very nature; they are gentler of + heart, and laugh better and oftener than you. + </p> + <p> + They laugh also at chastity, and ask: “What is chastity? + </p> + <p> + Is chastity not folly? But the folly came unto us, and not we unto it. + </p> + <p> + We offered that guest harbour and heart: now it dwelleth with us—let + it stay as long as it will!”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XIV. THE FRIEND. + </h2></div> + <p> + “One, is always too many about me”—thinketh the anchorite. “Always + once one—that maketh two in the long run!” + </p> + <p> + I and me are always too earnestly in conversation: how could it be + endured, if there were not a friend? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ah! there are too many depths for all anchorites. Therefore, do they long + so much for a friend, and for his elevation. + </p> + <p> + Our faith in others betrayeth wherein we would fain have faith in + ourselves. Our longing for a friend is our betrayer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Be at least mine enemy!”—thus speaketh the true reverence, which + doth not venture to solicit friendship. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One ought still to honour the enemy in one’s friend. Canst thou go nigh + unto thy friend, and not go over to him? + </p> + <p> + In one’s friend one shall have one’s best enemy. Thou shalt be closest + unto him with thy heart when thou withstandest him. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thou canst not adorn thyself fine enough for thy friend; for thou shalt be + unto him an arrow and a longing for the Superman. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be a friend. Art thou a tyrant? Then + thou canst not have friends. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As yet woman is not capable of friendship: women are still cats, and + birds. Or at the best, cows. + </p> + <p> + As yet woman is not capable of friendship. But tell me, ye men, who of you + are capable of friendship? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There is comradeship: may there be friendship! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XV. THE THOUSAND AND ONE GOALS. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No people could live without first valuing; if a people will maintain + itself, however, it must not value as its neighbour valueth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Never did the one neighbour understand the other: ever did his soul marvel + at his neighbour’s delusion and wickedness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Valuing is creating: hear it, ye creating ones! Valuation itself is the + treasure and jewel of the valued things. + </p> + <p> + Through valuation only is there value; and without valuation the nut of + existence would be hollow. Hear it, ye creating ones! + </p> + <p> + Change of values—that is, change of the creating ones. Always doth + he destroy who hath to be a creator. + </p> + <p> + Creating ones were first of all peoples, and only in late times + individuals; verily, the individual himself is still the latest creation. + </p> + <p> + Peoples once hung over them tables of the good. Love which would rule and + love which would obey, created for themselves such tables. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But pray tell me, my brethren, if the goal of humanity be still lacking, + is there not also still lacking—humanity itself?— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XVI. NEIGHBOUR-LOVE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ye flee unto your neighbour from yourselves, and would fain make a virtue + thereof: but I fathom your “unselfishness.” + </p> + <p> + The THOU is older than the <i>I</i>; the THOU hath been consecrated, but + not yet the <i>I</i>: so man presseth nigh unto his neighbour. + </p> + <p> + Do I advise you to neighbour-love? Rather do I advise you to + neighbour-flight and to furthest love! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus saith the fool: “Association with men spoileth the character, + especially when one hath none.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I love not your festivals either: too many actors found I there, and even + the spectators often behaved like actors. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let the future and the furthest be the motive of thy to-day; in thy friend + shalt thou love the Superman as thy motive. + </p> + <p> + My brethren, I advise you not to neighbour-love—I advise you to + furthest love!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XVII. THE WAY OF THE CREATING ONE. + </h2></div> + <p> + Wouldst thou go into isolation, my brother? Wouldst thou seek the way unto + thyself? Tarry yet a little and hearken unto me. + </p> + <p> + “He who seeketh may easily get lost himself. All isolation is wrong”: so + say the herd. And long didst thou belong to the herd. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lo, that pain itself did the same conscience produce; and the last gleam + of that conscience still gloweth on thine affliction. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Alas! there are so many great thoughts that do nothing more than the + bellows: they inflate, and make emptier than ever. + </p> + <p> + Free, dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling thought would I hear of, and not + that thou hast escaped from a yoke. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Free from what? What doth that matter to Zarathustra! Clearly, however, + shall thine eye show unto me: free FOR WHAT? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To-day sufferest thou still from the multitude, thou individual; to-day + hast thou still thy courage unabated, and thy hopes. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Hast thou ever known, my brother, the word “disdain”? And the anguish of + thy justice in being just to those that disdain thee? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How could ye be just unto me!”—must thou say—“I choose your + injustice as my allotted portion.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To many a one mayest thou not give thy hand, but only thy paw; and I wish + thy paw also to have claws. + </p> + <p> + But the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou thyself always be; thou + waylayest thyself in caverns and forests. + </p> + <p> + Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to thyself! And past thyself and thy + seven devils leadeth thy way! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own flame; how couldst thou + become new if thou have not first become ashes! + </p> + <p> + Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the creating one: a God wilt thou + create for thyself out of thy seven devils! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + With thy love, go into thine isolation, my brother, and with thy creating; + and late only will justice limp after thee. + </p> + <p> + With my tears, go into thine isolation, my brother. I love him who seeketh + to create beyond himself, and thus succumbeth.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XVIII. OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN. + </h2></div> + <p> + “Why stealest thou along so furtively in the twilight, Zarathustra? And + what hidest thou so carefully under thy mantle? + </p> + <p> + 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?”— + </p> + <p> + Verily, my brother, said Zarathustra, it is a treasure that hath been + given me: it is a little truth which I carry. + </p> + <p> + But it is naughty, like a young child; and if I hold not its mouth, it + screameth too loudly. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Much hath Zarathustra spoken also to us women, but never spake he unto us + concerning woman.” + </p> + <p> + And I answered her: “Concerning woman, one should only talk unto men.” + </p> + <p> + “Talk also unto me of woman,” said she; “I am old enough to forget it + presently.” + </p> + <p> + And I obliged the old woman and spake thus unto her: + </p> + <p> + Everything in woman is a riddle, and everything in woman hath one solution—it + is called pregnancy. + </p> + <p> + Man is for woman a means: the purpose is always the child. But what is + woman for man? + </p> + <p> + Two different things wanteth the true man: danger and diversion. Therefore + wanteth he woman, as the most dangerous plaything. + </p> + <p> + Man shall be trained for war, and woman for the recreation of the warrior: + all else is folly. + </p> + <p> + Too sweet fruits—these the warrior liketh not. Therefore liketh he + woman;—bitter is even the sweetest woman. + </p> + <p> + Better than man doth woman understand children, but man is more childish + than woman. + </p> + <p> + In the true man there is a child hidden: it wanteth to play. Up then, ye + women, and discover the child in man! + </p> + <p> + A plaything let woman be, pure and fine like the precious stone, illumined + with the virtues of a world not yet come. + </p> + <p> + Let the beam of a star shine in your love! Let your hope say: “May I bear + the Superman!” + </p> + <p> + In your love let there be valour! With your love shall ye assail him who + inspireth you with fear! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let man fear woman when she loveth: then maketh she every sacrifice, and + everything else she regardeth as worthless. + </p> + <p> + Let man fear woman when she hateth: for man in his innermost soul is + merely evil; woman, however, is mean. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The happiness of man is, “I will.” The happiness of woman is, “He will.” + </p> + <p> + “Lo! now hath the world become perfect!”—thus thinketh every woman + when she obeyeth with all her love. + </p> + <p> + Obey, must the woman, and find a depth for her surface. Surface, is + woman’s soul, a mobile, stormy film on shallow water. + </p> + <p> + Man’s soul, however, is deep, its current gusheth in subterranean caverns: + woman surmiseth its force, but comprehendeth it not.— + </p> + <p> + Then answered me the old woman: “Many fine things hath Zarathustra said, + especially for those who are young enough for them. + </p> + <p> + Strange! Zarathustra knoweth little about woman, and yet he is right about + them! Doth this happen, because with women nothing is impossible? + </p> + <p> + And now accept a little truth by way of thanks! I am old enough for it! + </p> + <p> + Swaddle it up and hold its mouth: otherwise it will scream too loudly, the + little truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me, woman, thy little truth!” said I. And thus spake the old woman: + </p> + <p> + “Thou goest to women? Do not forget thy whip!”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XIX. THE BITE OF THE ADDER. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + The destroyer of morality, the good and just call me: my story is immoral. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And should a great injustice befall you, then do quickly five small ones + besides. Hideous to behold is he on whom injustice presseth alone. + </p> + <p> + Did ye ever know this? Shared injustice is half justice. And he who can + bear it, shall take the injustice upon himself! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I do not like your cold justice; out of the eye of your judges there + always glanceth the executioner and his cold steel. + </p> + <p> + Tell me: where find we justice, which is love with seeing eyes? + </p> + <p> + Devise me, then, the love which not only beareth all punishment, but also + all guilt! + </p> + <p> + Devise me, then, the justice which acquitteth every one except the judge! + </p> + <p> + And would ye hear this likewise? To him who seeketh to be just from the + heart, even the lie becometh philanthropy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Finally, my brethren, guard against doing wrong to any anchorite. How + could an anchorite forget! How could he requite! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Guard against injuring the anchorite! If ye have done so, however, well + then, kill him also!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XX. CHILD AND MARRIAGE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thou art young, and desirest child and marriage. But I ask thee: Art thou + a man ENTITLED to desire a child? + </p> + <p> + Art thou the victorious one, the self-conqueror, the ruler of thy + passions, the master of thy virtues? Thus do I ask thee. + </p> + <p> + Or doth the animal speak in thy wish, and necessity? Or isolation? Or + discord in thee? + </p> + <p> + I would have thy victory and freedom long for a child. Living monuments + shalt thou build to thy victory and emancipation. + </p> + <p> + Beyond thyself shalt thou build. But first of all must thou be built + thyself, rectangular in body and soul. + </p> + <p> + Not only onward shalt thou propagate thyself, but upward! For that purpose + may the garden of marriage help thee! + </p> + <p> + A higher body shalt thou create, a first movement, a spontaneously rolling + wheel—a creating one shalt thou create. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Ah, the poverty of soul in the twain! Ah, the filth of soul in the twain! + Ah, the pitiable self-complacency in the twain! + </p> + <p> + Marriage they call it all; and they say their marriages are made in + heaven. + </p> + <p> + Well, I do not like it, that heaven of the superfluous! No, I do not like + them, those animals tangled in the heavenly toils! + </p> + <p> + Far from me also be the God who limpeth thither to bless what he hath not + matched! + </p> + <p> + Laugh not at such marriages! What child hath not had reason to weep over + its parents? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yea, I would that the earth shook with convulsions when a saint and a + goose mate with one another. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That one was reserved in intercourse and chose choicely. But one time he + spoilt his company for all time: his marriage he calleth it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Many short follies—that is called love by you. And your marriage + putteth an end to many short follies, with one long stupidity. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But even your best love is only an enraptured simile and a painful ardour. + It is a torch to light you to loftier paths. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thirst in the creating one, arrow and longing for the Superman: tell me, + my brother, is this thy will to marriage? + </p> + <p> + Holy call I such a will, and such a marriage.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXI. VOLUNTARY DEATH. + </h2></div> + <p> + Many die too late, and some die too early. Yet strange soundeth the + precept: “Die at the right time!” + </p> + <p> + Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even + the hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The consummating death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and + promise to the living. + </p> + <p> + His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping + and promising ones. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is to die in battle, and + sacrifice a great soul. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary death, which cometh unto me + because <i>I</i> want it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no more + withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life. + </p> + <p> + Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord, + and thereby go ever backward. + </p> + <p> + Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless + mouth hath no longer the right to every truth. + </p> + <p> + And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and + practise the difficult art of—going at the right time. + </p> + <p> + One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is + known by those who want to be long loved. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In some ageth the heart first, and in others the spirit. And some are + hoary in youth, but the late young keep long young. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Many never become sweet; they rot even in the summer. It is cowardice that + holdeth them fast to their branches. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that hath + too much patience with you, ye blasphemers! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But in man there is more of the child than in the youth, and less of + melancholy: better understandeth he about life and death. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXII. THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting, beaming is it, and soft + of lustre: a bestowing virtue is the highest virtue. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts yourselves: and therefore + have ye the thirst to accumulate all riches in your soul. + </p> + <p> + Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels, because your + virtue is insatiable in desiring to bestow. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Verily, an appropriator of all values must such bestowing love become; but + healthy and holy, call I this selfishness.— + </p> + <p> + Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and hungry kind, which would + always steal—the selfishness of the sick, the sickly selfishness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible degeneration; of a sickly + body, speaketh the larcenous craving of this selfishness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Upward goeth our course from genera on to super-genera. But a horror to us + is the degenerating sense, which saith: “All for myself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Similes, are all names of good and evil; they do not speak out, they only + hint. A fool who seeketh knowledge from them! + </p> + <p> + Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your spirit would speak in + similes: there is the origin of your virtue. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When ye despise pleasant things, and the effeminate couch, and cannot + couch far enough from the effeminate: there is the origin of your virtue. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily, a new deep murmuring, and the + voice of a new fountain! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked lovingly on his disciples. Then + he continued to speak thus—and his voice had changed: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Not only the rationality of millenniums—also their madness, breaketh + out in us. Dangerous is it to be an heir. + </p> + <p> + Still fight we step by step with the giant Chance, and over all mankind + hath hitherto ruled nonsense, the lack-of-sense. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From the future come winds with + stealthy pinions, and to fine ears good tidings are proclaimed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go away, and alone! So will I + have it. + </p> + <p> + Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against + Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath deceived + you. + </p> + <p> + The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but also + to hate his friends. + </p> + <p> + One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar. And why will + ye not pluck at my wreath? + </p> + <p> + Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration should some day collapse? Take + heed lest a statue crush you! + </p> + <p> + Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account is Zarathustra! Ye + are my believers: but of what account are all believers! + </p> + <p> + Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all + believers; therefore all belief is of so little account. + </p> + <p> + Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all + denied me, will I return unto you. + </p> + <p> + Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; with + another love shall I then love you. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “DEAD ARE ALL THE GODS: NOW DO WE DESIRE THE SUPERMAN TO LIVE.”—Let + this be our final will at the great noontide!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. SECOND PART. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + “—and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you. + </div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXIII. THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus passed with the lonesome one months and years; his wisdom meanwhile + increased, and caused him pain by its abundance. + </p> + <p> + One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy dawn, and having meditated + long on his couch, at last spake thus to his heart: + </p> + <p> + Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke? Did not a child come to + me, carrying a mirror? + </p> + <p> + “O Zarathustra”—said the child unto me—“look at thyself in the + mirror!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Verily, all too well do I understand the dream’s portent and monition: my + DOCTRINE is in danger; tares want to be called wheat! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me to seek my lost ones!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What hath happened unto me, mine animals?—said Zarathustra. Am I not + transformed? Hath not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind? + </p> + <p> + Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will it speak: it is still too + young—so have patience with it! + </p> + <p> + Wounded am I by my happiness: all sufferers shall be physicians unto me! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Too long have I longed and looked into the distance. Too long hath + solitude possessed me: thus have I unlearned to keep silence. + </p> + <p> + Utterance have I become altogether, and the brawling of a brook from high + rocks: downward into the valleys will I hurl my speech. + </p> + <p> + And let the stream of my love sweep into unfrequented channels! How should + a stream not finally find its way to the sea! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Too slowly runneth all speaking for me:—into thy chariot, O storm, + do I leap! And even thee will I whip with my spite! + </p> + <p> + Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide seas, till I find the Happy + Isles where my friends sojourn;— + </p> + <p> + And mine enemies amongst them! How I now love every one unto whom I may + but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + The spear which I hurl at mine enemies! How grateful am I to mine enemies + that I may at last hurl it! + </p> + <p> + Too great hath been the tension of my cloud: ‘twixt laughters of + lightnings will I cast hail-showers into the depths. + </p> + <p> + Violently will my breast then heave; violently will it blow its storm over + the mountains: thus cometh its assuagement. + </p> + <p> + Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and my freedom! But mine enemies + shall think that THE EVIL ONE roareth over their heads. + </p> + <p> + Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my wild wisdom; and perhaps + ye will flee therefrom, along with mine enemies. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lonesome mountains; on the rough + stones did she bear the youngest of her young. + </p> + <p> + Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilderness, and seeketh and seeketh + the soft sward—mine old, wild wisdom! + </p> + <p> + On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends!—on your love, would + she fain couch her dearest one!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXIV. IN THE HAPPY ISLES. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lo, what fulness is around us! And out of the midst of superabundance, it + is delightful to look out upon distant seas. + </p> + <p> + Once did people say God, when they looked out upon distant seas; now, + however, have I taught you to say, Superman. + </p> + <p> + God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond + your creating will. + </p> + <p> + Could ye CREATE a God?—Then, I pray you, be silent about all Gods! + But ye could well create the Superman. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + God is a conjecture: but I should like your conjecturing restricted to the + conceivable. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yea, I have drawn the conclusion; now, however, doth it draw me.— + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + All the imperishable—that’s but a simile, and the poets lie too + much.— + </p> + <p> + But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall + they be, and a justification of all perishableness! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! Thus are + ye advocates and justifiers of all perishableness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or, to tell you it more + candidly: just such a fate—willeth my Will. + </p> + <p> + All FEELING suffereth in me, and is in prison: but my WILLING ever cometh + to me as mine emancipator and comforter. + </p> + <p> + Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will and emancipation—so + teacheth you Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no longer creating! Ah, that + that great debility may ever be far from me! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Away from God and Gods did this will allure me; what would there be to + create if there were—Gods! + </p> + <p> + But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent creative will; thus + impelleth it the hammer to the stone. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone fly the + fragments: what’s that to me? + </p> + <p> + I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—the stillest and + lightest of all things once came unto me! + </p> + <p> + The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of + what account now are—the Gods to me!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXV. THE PITIFUL. + </h2></div> + <p> + My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your friend: “Behold + Zarathustra! Walketh he not amongst us as if amongst animals?” + </p> + <p> + But it is better said in this wise: “The discerning one walketh amongst + men AS amongst animals.” + </p> + <p> + Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal with red cheeks. + </p> + <p> + How hath that happened unto him? Is it not because he hath had to be + ashamed too oft? + </p> + <p> + O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning one: shame, shame, shame—that + is the history of man! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose bliss is in their pity: + too destitute are they of bashfulness. + </p> + <p> + If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so; and if I be so, it is + preferably at a distance. + </p> + <p> + Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee, before being recognised: + and thus do I bid you do, my friends! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that + alone, my brethren, is our original sin! + </p> + <p> + And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we unlearn best to + give pain unto others, and to contrive pain. + </p> + <p> + Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped the sufferer; therefore do I + wipe also my soul. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Great obligations do not make grateful, but revengeful; and when a small + kindness is not forgotten, it becometh a gnawing worm. + </p> + <p> + “Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accepting!”—thus do I advise + those who have naught to bestow. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the + sting of conscience teacheth one to sting. + </p> + <p> + The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to have + done evilly than to have thought pettily! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh forth—it + speaketh honourably. + </p> + <p> + “Behold, I am disease,” saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult. + </p> + <p> + And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who + doth not concern us at all. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity. + </p> + <p> + One should hold fast one’s heart; for when one letteth it go, how quickly + doth one’s head run away! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their + pity! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: “Even God hath his hell: it + is his love for man.” + </p> + <p> + And lately, did I hear him say these words: “God is dead: of his pity for + man hath God died.”— + </p> + <p> + So be ye warned against pity: FROM THENCE there yet cometh unto men a + heavy cloud! Verily, I understand weather-signs! + </p> + <p> + But attend also to this word: All great love is above all its pity: for it + seeketh—to create what is loved! + </p> + <p> + “Myself do I offer unto my love, AND MY NEIGHBOUR AS MYSELF”—such is + the language of all creators. + </p> + <p> + All creators, however, are hard.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXVI. THE PRIESTS. + </h2></div> + <p> + And one day Zarathustra made a sign to his disciples, and spake these + words unto them: + </p> + <p> + “Here are priests: but although they are mine enemies, pass them quietly + and with sleeping swords! + </p> + <p> + Even among them there are heroes; many of them have suffered too much—: + so they want to make others suffer. + </p> + <p> + Bad enemies are they: nothing is more revengeful than their meekness. And + readily doth he soil himself who toucheth them. + </p> + <p> + But my blood is related to theirs; and I want withal to see my blood + honoured in theirs.”— + </p> + <p> + And when they had passed, a pain attacked Zarathustra; but not long had he + struggled with the pain, when he began to speak thus: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + In fetters of false values and fatuous words! Oh, that some one would save + them from their Saviour! + </p> + <p> + On an isle they once thought they had landed, when the sea tossed them + about; but behold, it was a slumbering monster! + </p> + <p> + False values and fatuous words: these are the worst monsters for mortals—long + slumbereth and waiteth the fate that is in them. + </p> + <p> + But at last it cometh and awaketh and devoureth and engulfeth whatever + hath built tabernacles upon it. + </p> + <p> + Oh, just look at those tabernacles which those priests have built + themselves! Churches, they call their sweet-smelling caves! + </p> + <p> + Oh, that falsified light, that mustified air! Where the soul—may not + fly aloft to its height! + </p> + <p> + But so enjoineth their belief: “On your knees, up the stair, ye sinners!” + </p> + <p> + Verily, rather would I see a shameless one than the distorted eyes of + their shame and devotion! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They called God that which opposed and afflicted them: and verily, there + was much hero-spirit in their worship! + </p> + <p> + And they knew not how to love their God otherwise than by nailing men to + the cross! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And he who liveth nigh unto them liveth nigh unto black pools, wherein the + toad singeth his song with sweet gravity. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Naked, would I like to see them: for beauty alone should preach penitence. + But whom would that disguised affliction convince! + </p> + <p> + Verily, their Saviours themselves came not from freedom and freedom’s + seventh heaven! Verily, they themselves never trod the carpets of + knowledge! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Small spirits and spacious souls had those shepherds: but, my brethren, + what small domains have even the most spacious souls hitherto been! + </p> + <p> + Characters of blood did they write on the way they went, and their folly + taught that truth is proved by blood. + </p> + <p> + But blood is the very worst witness to truth; blood tainteth the purest + teaching, and turneth it into delusion and hatred of heart. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Sultry heart and cold head; where these meet, there ariseth the blusterer, + the “Saviour.” + </p> + <p> + Greater ones, verily, have there been, and higher-born ones, than those + whom the people call Saviours, those rapturous blusterers! + </p> + <p> + And by still greater ones than any of the Saviours must ye be saved, my + brethren, if ye would find the way to freedom! + </p> + <p> + Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, the + greatest man and the smallest man:— + </p> + <p> + All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily, even the greatest + found I—all-too-human!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXVII. THE VIRTUOUS. + </h2></div> + <p> + With thunder and heavenly fireworks must one speak to indolent and + somnolent senses. + </p> + <p> + But beauty’s voice speaketh gently: it appealeth only to the most awakened + souls. + </p> + <p> + Gently vibrated and laughed unto me to-day my buckler; it was beauty’s + holy laughing and thrilling. + </p> + <p> + At you, ye virtuous ones, laughed my beauty to-day. And thus came its + voice unto me: “They want—to be paid besides!” + </p> + <p> + Ye want to be paid besides, ye virtuous ones! Ye want reward for virtue, + and heaven for earth, and eternity for your to-day? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For this is your truth: ye are TOO PURE for the filth of the words: + vengeance, punishment, recompense, retribution. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring’s thirst is in you: to + reach itself again struggleth every ring, and turneth itself. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + But sure enough there are those to whom virtue meaneth writhing under the + lash: and ye have hearkened too much unto their crying! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ah! their crying also hath reached your ears, ye virtuous ones: “What I am + NOT, that, that is God to me, and virtue!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And others are there who are like eight-day clocks when wound up; they + tick, and want people to call ticking—virtue. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + With their virtues they want to scratch out the eyes of their enemies; and + they elevate themselves only that they may lower others. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + And again there are those who love attitudes, and think that virtue is a + sort of attitude. + </p> + <p> + Their knees continually adore, and their hands are eulogies of virtue, but + their heart knoweth naught thereof. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + But Zarathustra came not to say unto all those liars and fools: “What do + YE know of virtue! What COULD ye know of virtue!”— + </p> + <p> + But that ye, my friends, might become weary of the old words which ye have + learned from the fools and liars: + </p> + <p> + That ye might become weary of the words “reward,” “retribution,” + “punishment,” “righteous vengeance.”— + </p> + <p> + That ye might become weary of saying: “That an action is good is because + it is unselfish.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Verily, I have taken from you a hundred formulae and your virtue’s + favourite playthings; and now ye upbraid me, as children upbraid. + </p> + <p> + They played by the sea—then came there a wave and swept their + playthings into the deep: and now do they cry. + </p> + <p> + But the same wave shall bring them new playthings, and spread before them + new speckled shells! + </p> + <p> + Thus will they be comforted; and like them shall ye also, my friends, have + your comforting—and new speckled shells!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXVIII. THE RABBLE. + </h2></div> + <p> + Life is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all + fountains are poisoned. + </p> + <p> + To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see the grinning + mouths and the thirst of the unclean. + </p> + <p> + They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glanceth up to me + their odious smile out of the fountain. + </p> + <p> + The holy water have they poisoned with their lustfulness; and when they + called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit in their hands: unsteady, and + withered at the top, doth their look make the fruit-tree. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And it is not the mouthful which hath most choked me, to know that life + itself requireth enmity and death and torture-crosses:— + </p> + <p> + But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my question: What? is the + rabble also NECESSARY for life? + </p> + <p> + Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking fires, and filthy dreams, + and maggots in the bread of life? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Almost too violently dost thou flow for me, thou fountain of delight! And + often emptiest thou the goblet again, in wanting to fill it! + </p> + <p> + And yet must I learn to approach thee more modestly: far too violently + doth my heart still flow towards thee:— + </p> + <p> + My heart on which my summer burneth, my short, hot, melancholy, over-happy + summer: how my summer heart longeth for thy coolness! + </p> + <p> + Past, the lingering distress of my spring! Past, the wickedness of my + snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide! + </p> + <p> + A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissful + stillness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become more + blissful! + </p> + <p> + For this is OUR height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell + for all uncleanly ones and their thirst. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On the tree of the future build we our nest; eagles shall bring us lone + ones food in their beaks! + </p> + <p> + Verily, no food of which the impure could be fellow-partakers! Fire, would + they think they devoured, and burn their mouths! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXIX. THE TARANTULAS. + </h2></div> + <p> + Lo, this is the tarantula’s den! Wouldst thou see the tarantula itself? + Here hangeth its web: touch this, so that it may tremble. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Revenge is in thy soul: wherever thou bitest, there ariseth black scab; + with revenge, thy poison maketh the soul giddy! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + But I will soon bring your hiding-places to the light: therefore do I + laugh in your face my laughter of the height. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Because, FOR MAN TO BE REDEEMED FROM REVENGE—that is for me the + bridge to the highest hope, and a rainbow after long storms. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Vengeance will we use, and insult, against all who are not like us”—thus + do the tarantula-hearts pledge themselves. + </p> + <p> + “And ‘Will to Equality’—that itself shall henceforth be the name of + virtue; and against all that hath power will we raise an outcry!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Fretted conceit and suppressed envy—perhaps your fathers’ conceit + and envy: in you break they forth as flame and frenzy of vengeance. + </p> + <p> + What the father hath hid cometh out in the son; and oft have I found in + the son the father’s revealed secret. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance, in all their eulogies is + maleficence; and being judge seemeth to them bliss. + </p> + <p> + But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse to + punish is powerful! + </p> + <p> + They are people of bad race and lineage; out of their countenances peer + the hangman and the sleuth-hound. + </p> + <p> + Distrust all those who talk much of their justice! Verily, in their souls + not only honey is lacking. + </p> + <p> + And when they call themselves “the good and just,” forget not, that for + them to be Pharisees, nothing is lacking but—power! + </p> + <p> + My friends, I will not be mixed up and confounded with others. + </p> + <p> + There are those who preach my doctrine of life, and are at the same time + preachers of equality, and tarantulas. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To those would they thereby do injury who have power at present: for with + those the preaching of death is still most at home. + </p> + <p> + Were it otherwise, then would the tarantulas teach otherwise: and they + themselves were formerly the best world-maligners and heretic-burners. + </p> + <p> + With these preachers of equality will I not be mixed up and confounded. + For thus speaketh justice UNTO ME: “Men are not equal.” + </p> + <p> + And neither shall they become so! What would be my love to the Superman, + if I spake otherwise? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Verily, he who here towered aloft his thoughts in stone, knew as well as + the wisest ones about the secret of life! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Thus, steadfast and beautiful, let us also be enemies, my friends! + Divinely will we strive AGAINST one another!— + </p> + <p> + Alas! There hath the tarantula bit me myself, mine old enemy! Divinely + steadfast and beautiful, it hath bit me on the finger! + </p> + <p> + “Punishment must there be, and justice”—so thinketh it: “not + gratuitously shall he here sing songs in honour of enmity!” + </p> + <p> + Yea, it hath revenged itself! And alas! now will it make my soul also + dizzy with revenge! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Verily, no cyclone or whirlwind is Zarathustra: and if he be a dancer, he + is not at all a tarantula-dancer!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXX. THE FAMOUS WISE ONES. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “For there the truth is, where the people are! Woe, woe to the seeking + ones!”—thus hath it echoed through all time. + </p> + <p> + Your people would ye justify in their reverence: that called ye “Will to + Truth,” ye famous wise ones! + </p> + <p> + And your heart hath always said to itself: “From the people have I come: + from thence came to me also the voice of God.” + </p> + <p> + Stiff-necked and artful, like the ass, have ye always been, as the + advocates of the people. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now, ye famous wise ones, I would have you finally throw off entirely + the skin of the lion! + </p> + <p> + The skin of the beast of prey, the speckled skin, and the dishevelled + locks of the investigator, the searcher, and the conqueror! + </p> + <p> + Ah! for me to learn to believe in your “conscientiousness,” ye would first + have to break your venerating will. + </p> + <p> + Conscientious—so call I him who goeth into God-forsaken + wildernesses, and hath broken his venerating heart. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But his thirst doth not persuade him to become like those comfortable + ones: for where there are oases, there are also idols. + </p> + <p> + Hungry, fierce, lonesome, God-forsaken: so doth the lion-will wish itself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For, always, do they draw, as asses—the PEOPLE’S carts! + </p> + <p> + Not that I on that account upbraid them: but serving ones do they remain, + and harnessed ones, even though they glitter in golden harness. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + The spirit and virtue of thy master shall advance by thou being his + servant: thus wilt thou thyself advance with his spirit and virtue!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + But the people ye remain for me, even with your virtues, the people with + purblind eyes—the people who know not what SPIRIT is! + </p> + <p> + Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life: by its own torture doth it + increase its own knowledge,—did ye know that before? + </p> + <p> + And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and consecrated with + tears as a sacrificial victim,—did ye know that before? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Ye know only the sparks of the spirit: but ye do not see the anvil which + it is, and the cruelty of its hammer! + </p> + <p> + Verily, ye know not the spirit’s pride! But still less could ye endure the + spirit’s humility, should it ever want to speak! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Respectable do ye there stand, and stiff, and with straight backs, ye + famous wise ones!—no strong wind or will impelleth you. + </p> + <p> + Have ye ne’er seen a sail crossing the sea, rounded and inflated, and + trembling with the violence of the wind? + </p> + <p> + Like the sail trembling with the violence of the spirit, doth my wisdom + cross the sea—my wild wisdom! + </p> + <p> + But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise ones—how COULD ye go + with me!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXI. THE NIGHT-SONG. + </h2></div> + <p> + ‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is + a gushing fountain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul + also is the song of a loving one. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt + with light! + </p> + <p> + Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of + light! + </p> + <p> + And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms + aloft!—and would rejoice in the gifts of your light. + </p> + <p> + But I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that + break forth from me. + </p> + <p> + I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that + stealing must be more blessed than receiving. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the + craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Such revenge doth mine abundance think of: such mischief welleth out of my + lonesomeness. + </p> + <p> + My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of + itself by its abundance! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath + become too hard for the trembling of filled hands. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with + their light—but to me they are silent. + </p> + <p> + Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpityingly doth it + pursue its course. + </p> + <p> + Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns:—thus + travelleth every sun. + </p> + <p> + Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. + Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there is + thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst! + </p> + <p> + ‘Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And + lonesomeness! + </p> + <p> + ‘Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain,—for + speech do I long. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is + a gushing fountain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the + song of a loving one.— + </p> + <p> + Thus sang Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXII. THE DANCE-SONG. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + Cease not your dancing, ye lovely maidens! No game-spoiler hath come to + you with evil eye, no enemy of maidens. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And even the little God may he find, who is dearest to maidens: beside the + well lieth he quietly, with closed eyes. + </p> + <p> + Verily, in broad daylight did he fall asleep, the sluggard! Had he perhaps + chased butterflies too much? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a dance; and I myself will + sing a song to his dance: + </p> + <p> + A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity my supremest, powerfulest + devil, who is said to be “lord of the world.”— + </p> + <p> + And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when Cupid and the maidens + danced together: + </p> + <p> + Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life! And into the unfathomable did I + there seem to sink. + </p> + <p> + But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle; derisively didst thou laugh + when I called thee unfathomable. + </p> + <p> + “Such is the language of all fish,” saidst thou; “what THEY do not fathom + is unfathomable. + </p> + <p> + But changeable am I only, and wild, and altogether a woman, and no + virtuous one: + </p> + <p> + Though I be called by you men the ‘profound one,’ or the ‘faithful one,’ + ‘the eternal one,’ ‘the mysterious one.’ + </p> + <p> + But ye men endow us always with your own virtues—alas, ye virtuous + ones!” + </p> + <p> + Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but never do I believe her and + her laughter, when she speaketh evil of herself. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For thus do things stand with us three. In my heart do I love only Life—and + verily, most when I hate her! + </p> + <p> + But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too fond, is because she remindeth + me very strongly of Life! + </p> + <p> + She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden angle-rod: am I + responsible for it that both are so alike? + </p> + <p> + And when once Life asked me: “Who is she then, this Wisdom?”—then + said I eagerly: “Ah, yes! Wisdom! + </p> + <p> + One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one looketh through veils, one + graspeth through nets. + </p> + <p> + Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured by + her. + </p> + <p> + Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and + pass the comb against the grain of her hair. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she + speaketh ill of herself, just then doth she seduce most.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine eyes, O beloved Life! And into + the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink.— + </p> + <p> + Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had + departed, he became sad. + </p> + <p> + “The sun hath been long set,” said he at last, “the meadow is damp, and + from the forest cometh coolness. + </p> + <p> + An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou + livest still, Zarathustra? + </p> + <p> + Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to + live?— + </p> + <p> + Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me. Forgive + me my sadness! + </p> + <p> + Evening hath come on: forgive me that evening hath come on!” + </p> + <p> + Thus sang Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXIII. THE GRAVE-SONG. + </h2></div> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o’er the sea.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Still am I your love’s heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with + many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O ye dearest ones! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + But this word will I say unto mine enemies: What is all manslaughter in + comparison with what ye have done unto me! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake once in a happy hour my purity: “Divine shall everything be + unto me.” + </p> + <p> + Then did ye haunt me with foul phantoms; ah, whither hath that happy hour + now fled! + </p> + <p> + “All days shall be holy unto me”—so spake once the wisdom of my + youth: verily, the language of a joyous wisdom! + </p> + <p> + But then did ye enemies steal my nights, and sold them to sleepless + torture: ah, whither hath that joyous wisdom now fled? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Verily, it was always your doing: ye embittered to me my best honey, and + the diligence of my best bees. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now hath he struck up an awful, melancholy air; alas, he tooted as a + mournful horn to mine ear! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Unspoken and unrealised hath my highest hope remained! And there have + perished for me all the visions and consolations of my youth! + </p> + <p> + How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and surmount such wounds? How + did my soul rise again out of those sepulchres? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will; hard of heart is its + nature and invulnerable. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Thus sang Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXIV. SELF-SURPASSING. + </h2></div> + <p> + “Will to Truth” do ye call it, ye wisest ones, that which impelleth you + and maketh you ardent? + </p> + <p> + Will for the thinkableness of all being: thus do <i>I</i> call your will! + </p> + <p> + All being would ye MAKE thinkable: for ye doubt with good reason whether + it be already thinkable. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ye would still create a world before which ye can bow the knee: such is + your ultimate hope and ecstasy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Onward the river now carrieth your boat: it MUST carry it. A small matter + if the rough wave foameth and angrily resisteth its keel! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The living thing did I follow; I walked in the broadest and narrowest + paths to learn its nature. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But wherever I found living things, there heard I also the language of + obedience. All living things are obeying things. + </p> + <p> + And this heard I secondly: Whatever cannot obey itself, is commanded. Such + is the nature of living things. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + An attempt and a risk seemed all commanding unto me; and whenever it + commandeth, the living thing risketh itself thereby. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + How doth this happen! so did I ask myself. What persuadeth the living + thing to obey, and command, and even be obedient in commanding? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and danger, and play dice + for death. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And this secret spake Life herself unto me. “Behold,” said she, “I am that + WHICH MUST EVER SURPASS ITSELF. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Whatever I create, and however much I love it,—soon must I be + adverse to it, and to my love: so willeth my will. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at it the formula: ‘Will to + existence’: that will—doth not exist! + </p> + <p> + For what is not, cannot will; that, however, which is in existence—how + could it still strive for existence! + </p> + <p> + Only where there is life, is there also will: not, however, Will to Life, + but—so teach I thee—Will to Power! + </p> + <p> + Much is reckoned higher than life itself by the living one; but out of the + very reckoning speaketh—the Will to Power!”— + </p> + <p> + Thus did Life once teach me: and thereby, ye wisest ones, do I solve you + the riddle of your hearts. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But a stronger power groweth out of your values, and a new surpassing: by + it breaketh egg and egg-shell. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however, + is the creating good.— + </p> + <p> + Let us SPEAK thereof, ye wisest ones, even though it be bad. To be silent + is worse; all suppressed truths become poisonous. + </p> + <p> + And let everything break up which—can break up by our truths! Many a + house is still to be built!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXV. THE SUBLIME ONES. + </h2></div> + <p> + Calm is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hideth droll + monsters! + </p> + <p> + Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with swimming enigmas and laughters. + </p> + <p> + A sublime one saw I to-day, a solemn one, a penitent of the spirit: Oh, + how my soul laughed at his ugliness! + </p> + <p> + With upraised breast, and like those who draw in their breath: thus did he + stand, the sublime one, and in silence: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty. Gloomy did this hunter return + from the forest of knowledge. + </p> + <p> + From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild + beast gazeth out of his seriousness—an unconquered wild beast! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And only when he turneth away from himself will he o’erleap his own shadow—and + verily! into HIS sun. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As the ox ought he to do; and his happiness should smell of the earth, and + not of contempt for the earth. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand danceth upon it. + O’ershadowed is still the sense of his eye. + </p> + <p> + His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscureth the + doer. Not yet hath he overcome his deed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + He hath subdued monsters, he hath solved enigmas. But he should also + redeem his monsters and enigmas; into heavenly children should he + transform them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Verily, not in satiety shall his longing cease and disappear, but in + beauty! Gracefulness belongeth to the munificence of the magnanimous. + </p> + <p> + His arm across his head: thus should the hero repose; thus should he also + surmount his repose. + </p> + <p> + But precisely to the hero is BEAUTY the hardest thing of all. Unattainable + is beauty by all ardent wills. + </p> + <p> + A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the most + here. + </p> + <p> + To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the + hardest for all of you, ye sublime ones! + </p> + <p> + When power becometh gracious and descendeth into the visible—I call + such condescension, beauty. + </p> + <p> + And from no one do I want beauty so much as from thee, thou powerful one: + let thy goodness be thy last self-conquest. + </p> + <p> + All evil do I accredit to thee: therefore do I desire of thee the good. + </p> + <p> + Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings, who think themselves good + because they have crippled paws! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yea, thou sublime one, one day shalt thou also be beautiful, and hold up + the mirror to thine own beauty. + </p> + <p> + Then will thy soul thrill with divine desires; and there will be adoration + even in thy vanity! + </p> + <p> + For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero hath abandoned it, then + only approacheth it in dreams—the superhero.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXVI. THE LAND OF CULTURE. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me. + </div> + <p> + And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily, + with longing in my heart did I come. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs—so sat ye there to + mine astonishment, ye present-day men! + </p> + <p> + And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours, + and repeated it! + </p> + <p> + Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own + faces! Who could—RECOGNISE you! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all customs + and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures. + </p> + <p> + He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures, + would just have enough left to scare the crows. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither endure you + naked nor clothed, ye present-day men! + </p> + <p> + All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds + shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your “reality.” + </p> + <p> + For thus speak ye: “Real are we wholly, and without faith and + superstition”: thus do ye plume yourselves—alas! even without + plumes! + </p> + <p> + Indeed, how would ye be ABLE to believe, ye divers-coloured ones!—ye + who are pictures of all that hath ever been believed! + </p> + <p> + Perambulating refutations are ye, of belief itself, and a dislocation of + all thought. UNTRUSTWORTHY ONES: thus do <i>I</i> call you, ye real ones! + </p> + <p> + All periods prate against one another in your spirits; and the dreams and + pratings of all periods were even realer than your awakeness! + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + Half-open doors are ye, at which grave-diggers wait. And this is YOUR + reality: “Everything deserveth to perish.” + </p> + <p> + Alas, how ye stand there before me, ye unfruitful ones; how lean your + ribs! And many of you surely have had knowledge thereof. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Amazing is the poverty of my ribs!” thus hath spoken many a present-day + man. + </p> + <p> + Yea, ye are laughable unto me, ye present-day men! And especially when ye + marvel at yourselves! + </p> + <p> + And woe unto me if I could not laugh at your marvelling, and had to + swallow all that is repugnant in your platters! + </p> + <p> + As it is, however, I will make lighter of you, since I have to carry + <i>what is heavy;</i> and what matter if beetles and May-bugs also alight + on my load! + </p> + <p> + Verily, it shall not on that account become heavier to me! And not from + you, ye present-day men, shall my great weariness arise.— + </p> + <p> + Ah, whither shall I now ascend with my longing! From all mountains do I + look out for fatherlands and motherlands. + </p> + <p> + But a home have I found nowhere: unsettled am I in all cities, and + decamping at all gates. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Unto my children will I make amends for being the child of my fathers: and + unto all the future—for THIS present-day!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXVII. IMMACULATE PERCEPTION. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But it was a liar with its pregnancy; and sooner will I believe in the man + in the moon than in the woman. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For he is covetous and jealous, the monk in the moon; covetous of the + earth, and all the joys of lovers. + </p> + <p> + Nay, I like him not, that tom-cat on the roofs! Hateful unto me are all + that slink around half-closed windows! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Every honest one’s step speaketh; the cat however, stealeth along over the + ground. Lo! cat-like doth the moon come along, and dishonestly.— + </p> + <p> + This parable speak I unto you sentimental dissemblers, unto you, the “pure + discerners!” You do <i>I</i> call—covetous ones! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + To despise the earthly hath your spirit been persuaded, but not your + bowels: these, however, are the strongest in you! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + Oh, ye sentimental dissemblers, ye covetous ones! Ye lack innocence in + your desire: and now do ye defame desiring on that account! + </p> + <p> + Verily, not as creators, as procreators, or as jubilators do ye love the + earth! + </p> + <p> + Where is innocence? Where there is will to procreation. And he who seeketh + to create beyond himself, hath for me the purest will. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Verily, ye fill your mouth with noble words: and we are to believe that + your heart overfloweth, ye cozeners? + </p> + <p> + But MY words are poor, contemptible, stammering words: gladly do I pick up + what falleth from the table at your repasts. + </p> + <p> + Yet still can I say therewith the truth—to dissemblers! Yea, my + fish-bones, shells, and prickly leaves shall—tickle the noses of + dissemblers! + </p> + <p> + Bad air is always about you and your repasts: your lascivious thoughts, + your lies, and secrets are indeed in the air! + </p> + <p> + Dare only to believe in yourselves—in yourselves and in your inward + parts! He who doth not believe in himself always lieth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Serpents’ filth and evil odour, the distance concealed from me: and that a + lizard’s craft prowled thereabouts lasciviously. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + See there! Surprised and pale doth it stand—before the rosy dawn! + </p> + <p> + For already she cometh, the glowing one,—HER love to the earth + cometh! Innocence and creative desire, is all solar love! + </p> + <p> + See there, how she cometh impatiently over the sea! Do ye not feel the + thirst and the hot breath of her love? + </p> + <p> + At the sea would she suck, and drink its depths to her height: now riseth + the desire of the sea with its thousand breasts. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Verily, like the sun do I love life, and all deep seas. + </p> + <p> + And this meaneth TO ME knowledge: all that is deep shall ascend—to + my height!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXVIII. SCHOLARS. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + It said this, and went away clumsily and proudly. A child told it to me. + </p> + <p> + I like to lie here where the children play, beside the ruined wall, among + thistles and red poppies. + </p> + <p> + A scholar am I still to the children, and also to the thistles and red + poppies. Innocent are they, even in their wickedness. + </p> + <p> + But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar: so willeth my lot—blessings + upon it! + </p> + <p> + For this is the truth: I have departed from the house of the scholars, and + the door have I also slammed behind me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Freedom do I love, and the air over fresh soil; rather would I sleep on + ox-skins than on their honours and dignities. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I saw them always prepare their poison with precaution; and always did + they put glass gloves on their fingers in doing so. + </p> + <p> + They also know how to play with false dice; and so eagerly did I find them + playing, that they perspired thereby. + </p> + <p> + We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to + my taste than their falsehoods and false dice. + </p> + <p> + And when I lived with them, then did I live above them. Therefore did they + take a dislike to me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus did they deafen the sound of my tread: and least have I hitherto been + heard by the most learned. + </p> + <p> + All mankind’s faults and weaknesses did they put betwixt themselves and + me:—they call it “false ceiling” in their houses. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For men are NOT equal: so speaketh justice. And what I will, THEY may not + will!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XXXIX. POETS. + </h2></div> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said Zarathustra. “Thou askest why? I do not belong to those who + may be asked after their Why. + </p> + <p> + Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced the + reasons for mine opinions. + </p> + <p> + Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my + reasons with me? + </p> + <p> + It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a + bird flieth away. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too much?—But + Zarathustra also is a poet. + </p> + <p> + Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it?” + </p> + <p> + The disciple answered: “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook + his head and smiled.— + </p> + <p> + Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself. + </p> + <p> + But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lie + too much: he was right—WE do lie too much. + </p> + <p> + We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with + the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always + think that nature herself is in love with them: + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the + poets have dreamed! + </p> + <p> + And especially ABOVE the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations, + poet-sophistications! + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + Are not they light enough for those chairs!—all these Gods and + Supermen?— + </p> + <p> + Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual! + Ah, how I am weary of the poets! + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are + they all unto me, and shallow seas. + </p> + <p> + They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling + did not reach to the bottom. + </p> + <p> + Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these have + as yet been their best contemplation. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that it + may seem deep. + </p> + <p> + And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries + and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may + well originate from the sea. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the peacock + of peacocks? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh to the sand with its + soul, nigher still to the thicket, nighest, however, to the swamp. + </p> + <p> + What is beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speak + unto the poets. + </p> + <p> + Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of + vanity! + </p> + <p> + Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet—should they even be + buffaloes!— + </p> + <p> + But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it will + become weary of itself. + </p> + <p> + Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards + themselves. + </p> + <p> + Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the poets.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XL. GREAT EVENTS. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Behold!” said the old helmsman, “there goeth Zarathustra to hell!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And this is the account of Zarathustra’s interview with the fire-dog: + </p> + <p> + The earth, said he, hath a skin; and this skin hath diseases. One of these + diseases, for example, is called “man.” + </p> + <p> + And another of these diseases is called “the fire-dog”: concerning HIM men + have greatly deceived themselves, and let themselves be deceived. + </p> + <p> + To fathom this mystery did I go o’er the sea; and I have seen the truth + naked, verily! barefooted up to the neck. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ye understand how to roar and obscure with ashes! Ye are the best + braggarts, and have sufficiently learned the art of making dregs boil. + </p> + <p> + Where ye are, there must always be dregs at hand, and much that is spongy, + hollow, and compressed: it wanteth to have freedom. + </p> + <p> + ‘Freedom’ ye all roar most eagerly: but I have unlearned the belief in + ‘great events,’ when there is much roaring and smoke about them. + </p> + <p> + And believe me, friend Hullabaloo! The greatest events—are not our + noisiest, but our stillest hours. + </p> + <p> + Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the inventors of new + values, doth the world revolve; INAUDIBLY it revolveth. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing by its suffering; and + verily! it will yet thank you for o’erthrowing it, ye subverters! + </p> + <p> + 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!—” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake I before the fire-dog: then did he interrupt me sullenly, and + asked: “Church? What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For it seeketh by all means to be the most important creature on earth, + the state; and people think it so.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At last he became calmer and his panting subsided; as soon, however, as he + was quiet, I said laughingly: + </p> + <p> + “Thou art angry, fire-dog: so I am in the right about thee! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain: so doth his heart desire. + What are ashes and smoke and hot dregs to him! + </p> + <p> + Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud; adverse is he to thy + gargling and spewing and grips in the bowels! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to think of it!” said Zarathustra. “Am I indeed a ghost? + </p> + <p> + But it may have been my shadow. Ye have surely heard something of the + Wanderer and his Shadow? + </p> + <p> + One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a tighter hold of it; + otherwise it will spoil my reputation.” + </p> + <p> + And once more Zarathustra shook his head and wondered. “What am I to think + of it!” said he once more. + </p> + <p> + “Why did the ghost cry: ‘It is time! It is the highest time!’ + </p> + <p> + <i>For what</i> is it then—the highest time?”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLI. THE SOOTHSAYER. + </h2></div> + <p> + “—And I saw a great sadness come over mankind. The best turned weary of + their works. + </p> + <p> + A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: ‘All is empty, all is alike, + all hath been!’ + </p> + <p> + And from all hills there re-echoed: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all hath + been!’ + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye hath + singed yellow our fields and hearts. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded. All the ground + trieth to gape, but the depth will not swallow! + </p> + <p> + ‘Alas! where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned?’ so + soundeth our plaint—across shallow swamps. + </p> + <p> + Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake and + live on—in sepulchres.” + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while, and there cometh the + long twilight. Alas, how shall I preserve my light through it! + </p> + <p> + That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness! To remoter worlds shall it + be a light, and also to remotest nights! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake when he awoke; his voice, + however, came unto his disciples as from afar: + </p> + <p> + Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my friends, and help me to + divine its meaning! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-watchman and grave-guardian + had I become, aloft, in the lone mountain-fortress of Death. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The odour of dust-covered eternities did I breathe: sultry and + dust-covered lay my soul. And who could have aired his soul there! + </p> + <p> + Brightness of midnight was ever around me; lonesomeness cowered beside + her; and as a third, death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female + friends. + </p> + <p> + Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to open with + them the most creaking of all gates. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who + carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? + </p> + <p> + And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself. But not + a finger’s-breadth was it yet open: + </p> + <p> + Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart: whistling, whizzing, and + piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin. + </p> + <p> + And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing the coffin burst up, and + spouted out a thousand peals of laughter. + </p> + <p> + And a thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and + child-sized butterflies laughed and mocked, and roared at me. + </p> + <p> + Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated me. And I cried with + horror as I ne’er cried before. + </p> + <p> + But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came to myself.— + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream, O Zarathustra! + </p> + <p> + Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill whistling, which bursteth open + the gates of the fortress of Death? + </p> + <p> + Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued malices and + angel-caricatures of life? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and prostrate them: fainting and + recovering will demonstrate thy power over them. + </p> + <p> + And when the long twilight cometh and the mortal weariness, even then wilt + thou not disappear from our firmament, thou advocate of life! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Verily, THEY THEMSELVES DIDST THOU DREAM, thine enemies: that was thy + sorest dream. + </p> + <p> + But as thou awokest from them and camest to thyself, so shall they awaken + from themselves—and come unto thee!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long into the face of the + disciple who had been the dream-interpreter, and shook his head.— + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLII. REDEMPTION. + </h2></div> + <p> + When Zarathustra went one day over the great bridge, then did the cripples + and beggars surround him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and limbs + of human beings! + </p> + <p> + This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and + scattered about, as on a battle- and butcher-ground. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror? Or an inheritor? A harvest? + Or a ploughshare? A physician? Or a healed one? + </p> + <p> + Is he a poet? Or a genuine one? An emancipator? Or a subjugator? A good + one? Or an evil one? + </p> + <p> + I walk amongst men as the fragments of the future: that future which I + contemplate. + </p> + <p> + And it is all my poetisation and aspiration to compose and collect into + unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful chance. + </p> + <p> + And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also the composer, and + riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance! + </p> + <p> + To redeem what is past, and to transform every “It was” into “Thus would I + have it!”—that only do I call redemption! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Willing emancipateth: but what is that called which still putteth the + emancipator in chains? + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot break time and time’s + desire—that is the Will’s lonesomest tribulation. + </p> + <p> + Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself devise in order to get free + from its tribulation and mock at its prison? + </p> + <p> + Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly delivereth itself also the + imprisoned Will. + </p> + <p> + That time doth not run backward—that is its animosity: “That which + was”: so is the stone which it cannot roll called. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This, yea, this alone is REVENGE itself: the Will’s antipathy to time, and + its “It was.” + </p> + <p> + Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto all + humanity, that this folly acquired spirit! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a good + conscience. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last madness + preached: “Everything perisheth, therefore everything deserveth to + perish!” + </p> + <p> + “And this itself is justice, the law of time—that he must devour his + children:” thus did madness preach. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing become + non-Willing—:” but ye know, my brethren, this fabulous song of + madness! + </p> + <p> + Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: “The Will + is a creator.” + </p> + <p> + All “It was” is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance—until the + creating Will saith thereto: “But thus would I have it.”— + </p> + <p> + Until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus do I will it! Thus shall + I will it!” + </p> + <p> + But did it ever speak thus? And when doth this take place? Hath the Will + been unharnessed from its own folly? + </p> + <p> + Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? Hath it unlearned + the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing? + </p> + <p> + And who hath taught it reconciliation with time, and something higher than + all reconciliation? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + —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: + </p> + <p> + “It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult— + especially for a babbler.”— + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto us than unto his + disciples?” + </p> + <p> + Zarathustra answered: “What is there to be wondered at! With hunchbacks + one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!” + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” said the hunchback; “and with pupils one may well tell tales + out of school. + </p> + <p> + But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto his pupils—than unto + himself?”— + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLIII. MANLY PRUDENCE. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible! + </div> + <p> + The declivity, where the gaze shooteth DOWNWARDS, and the hand graspeth + UPWARDS. There doth the heart become giddy through its double will. + </p> + <p> + Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart’s double will? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And THEREFORE do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not: that my + hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness. + </p> + <p> + I know not you men: this gloom and consolation is often spread around me. + </p> + <p> + I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wisheth to deceive me? + </p> + <p> + This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so as + not to be on my guard against deceivers. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I am more forbearing to the + VAIN than to the proud. + </p> + <p> + Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? Where, however, pride + is wounded, there groweth up something better than pride. + </p> + <p> + That life may be fair to behold, its game must be well played; for that + purpose, however, it needeth good actors. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They represent themselves, they invent themselves; in their neighbourhood + I like to look upon life—it cureth of melancholy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + From you would he learn his belief in himself; he feedeth upon your + glances, he eateth praise out of your hands. + </p> + <p> + Your lies doth he even believe when you lie favourably about him: for in + its depths sigheth his heart: “What am <i>I</i>?” + </p> + <p> + And if that be the true virtue which is unconscious of itself—well, + the vain man is unconscious of his modesty!— + </p> + <p> + This is, however, my third manly prudence: I am not put out of conceit + with the WICKED by your timorousness. + </p> + <p> + I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun hatcheth: tigers and palms and + rattle-snakes. + </p> + <p> + Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood of the warm sun, and much that + is marvellous in the wicked. + </p> + <p> + In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so very wise, so found I also + human wickedness below the fame of it. + </p> + <p> + And oft did I ask with a shake of the head: Why still rattle, ye + rattle-snakes? + </p> + <p> + Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And the warmest south is + still undiscovered by man. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + So alien are ye in your souls to what is great, that to you the Superman + would be FRIGHTFUL in his goodness! + </p> + <p> + And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee from the solar-glow of the + wisdom in which the Superman joyfully batheth his nakedness! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Into more distant futures, into more southern souths than ever artist + dreamed of: thither, where Gods are ashamed of all clothes! + </p> + <p> + But disguised do I want to see YOU, ye neighbours and fellowmen, and + well-attired and vain and estimable, as “the good and just;”— + </p> + <p> + And disguised will I myself sit amongst you—that I may MISTAKE you + and myself: for that is my last manly prudence.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLIV. THE STILLEST HOUR. + </h2></div> + <p> + What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye see me troubled, driven forth, + unwillingly obedient, ready to go—alas, to go away from YOU! + </p> + <p> + Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously + this time doth the bear go back to his cave! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me MY STILLEST HOUR: that is + the name of my terrible mistress. + </p> + <p> + And thus did it happen—for everything must I tell you, that your + heart may not harden against the suddenly departing one! + </p> + <p> + Do ye know the terror of him who falleth asleep?— + </p> + <p> + To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground giveth way under him, + and the dream beginneth. + </p> + <p> + This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour did + the ground give way under me: the dream began. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then was there spoken unto me without voice: “THOU KNOWEST IT, + ZARATHUSTRA?”— + </p> + <p> + And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face: but + I was silent. + </p> + <p> + Then was there once more spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest it, + Zarathustra, but thou dost not speak it!”— + </p> + <p> + And at last I answered, like one defiant: “Yea, I know it, but I will not + speak it!” + </p> + <p> + Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou WILT not, + Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance!”— + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about + thyself, Zarathustra! Speak thy word, and succumb!” + </p> + <p> + And I answered: “Ah, is it MY word? Who am <i>I</i>? I await the worthier + one; I am not worthy even to succumb by it.” + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “O Zarathustra, he who + hath to remove mountains removeth also valleys and plains.”— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in mine own path; + and certainly did my feet then tremble. + </p> + <p> + And thus did they speak unto me: Thou forgottest the path before, now dost + thou also forget how to walk!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Knowest thou not who is most needed by all? He who commandeth great + things. + </p> + <p> + To execute great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to + command great things. + </p> + <p> + This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou hast the power, and thou + wilt not rule.”— + </p> + <p> + And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice for all commanding.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus + wilt thou command, and in commanding go foremost.”— + </p> + <p> + And I answered: “I am ashamed.” + </p> + <p> + Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou must yet become a + child, and be without shame. + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, however, did I say + what I had said at first. “I will not.” + </p> + <p> + Then did a laughing take place all around me. Alas, how that laughing + lacerated my bowels and cut into my heart! + </p> + <p> + And there was spoken unto me for the last time: “O Zarathustra, thy fruits + are ripe, but thou art not ripe for thy fruits! + </p> + <p> + So must thou go again into solitude: for thou shalt yet become mellow.”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —Now have ye heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude. + Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends. + </p> + <p> + But even this have ye heard from me, WHO is still the most reserved of men—and + will be so! + </p> + <p> + 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?— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + THIRD PART. + </h2></div> + <p> + “Ye look aloft when ye long for exaltation, and I look downward because I + am exalted. + </p> + <p> + “Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted? + </p> + <p> + “He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays + and tragic realities.”—ZARATHUSTRA, I., “Reading and Writing.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLV. THE WANDERER. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now hath it become thy last refuge, + what was hitherto thy last danger! + </p> + <p> + Thou goest the way to thy greatness: it must now be thy best courage that + there is no longer any path behind thee! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must thou learn to mount + upon thine own head: how couldst thou mount upward otherwise? + </p> + <p> + Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest in + thee become the hardest. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + To learn TO LOOK AWAY FROM oneself, is necessary in order to see MANY + THINGS:—this hardiness is needed by every mountain-climber. + </p> + <p> + He, however, who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he + ever see more of anything than its foreground! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Now hath + my last lonesomeness begun. + </p> + <p> + Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation! + Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now GO DOWN! + </p> + <p> + Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wandering: + therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended: + </p> + <p> + —Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest + flood! So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready. + </p> + <p> + Whence come the highest mountains? so did I once ask. Then did I learn + that they come out of the sea. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Everything as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and + strangely doth its eye gaze upon me. + </p> + <p> + But it breatheth warmly—I feel it. And I feel also that it dreameth. + It tosseth about dreamily on hard pillows. + </p> + <p> + Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evil expectations? + </p> + <p> + Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myself + even for thy sake. + </p> + <p> + Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed, would I free + thee from evil dreams!— + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLVI. THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + To you, the daring venturers and adventurers, and whoever hath embarked + with cunning sails upon frightful seas,— + </p> + <p> + To you the enigma-intoxicated, the twilight-enjoyers, whose souls are + allured by flutes to every treacherous gulf: + </p> + <p> + —For ye dislike to grope at a thread with cowardly hand; and where + ye can DIVINE, there do ye hate to CALCULATE— + </p> + <p> + To you only do I tell the enigma that I SAW—the vision of the + lonesomest one.— + </p> + <p> + Gloomily walked I lately in corpse-coloured twilight—gloomily and + sternly, with compressed lips. Not only one sun had set for me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mutely marching over the scornful clinking of pebbles, trampling the stone + that let it slip: thus did my foot force its way upwards. + </p> + <p> + Upwards:—in spite of the spirit that drew it downwards, towards the + abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and arch-enemy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “O Zarathustra,” it whispered scornfully, syllable by syllable, “thou + stone of wisdom! Thou threwest thyself high, but every thrown stone must—fall! + </p> + <p> + O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom, thou sling-stone, thou + star-destroyer! Thyself threwest thou so high,—but every thrown + stone—must fall! + </p> + <p> + Condemned of thyself, and to thine own stoning: O Zarathustra, far indeed + threwest thou thy stone—but upon THYSELF will it recoil!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + For courage is the best slayer,—courage which ATTACKETH: for in + every attack there is sound of triumph. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Courage slayeth also giddiness at abysses: and where doth man not stand at + abysses! Is not seeing itself—seeing abysses? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Courage, however, is the best slayer, courage which attacketh: it slayeth + even death itself; for it saith: “WAS THAT life? Well! Once more!” + </p> + <p> + In such speech, however, there is much sound of triumph. He who hath ears + to hear, let him hear.— + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + This long lane backwards: it continueth for an eternity. And that long + lane forward—that is another eternity. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + But should one follow them further—and ever further and further on, + thinkest thou, dwarf, that these roads would be eternally antithetical?”— + </p> + <p> + “Everything straight lieth,” murmured the dwarf, contemptuously. “All + truth is crooked; time itself is a circle.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Observe,” continued I, “This Moment! From the gateway, This Moment, there + runneth a long eternal lane BACKWARDS: behind us lieth an eternity. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + And if everything have already existed, what thinkest thou, dwarf, of This + Moment? Must not this gateway also—have already existed? + </p> + <p> + And are not all things closely bound together in such wise that This + Moment draweth all coming things after it? CONSEQUENTLY—itself also? + </p> + <p> + For whatever CAN run its course of all things, also in this long lane + OUTWARD—MUST it once more run!— + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + —And must we not return and run in that other lane out before us, + that long weird lane—must we not eternally return?”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Had I ever heard a dog howl thus? My thoughts ran back. Yes! When I was a + child, in my most distant childhood: + </p> + <p> + —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: + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Ye daring ones around me! Ye venturers and adventurers, and whoever of you + have embarked with cunning sails on unexplored seas! Ye enigma-enjoyers! + </p> + <p> + Solve unto me the enigma that I then beheld, interpret unto me the vision + of the lonesomest one! + </p> + <p> + For it was a vision and a foresight:—WHAT did I then behold in + parable? And WHO is it that must come some day? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + —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.— + </p> + <p> + No longer shepherd, no longer man—a transfigured being, a + light-surrounded being, that LAUGHED! Never on earth laughed a man as HE + laughed! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLVII. INVOLUNTARY BLISS. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And verily, where such trees stand beside one another, there ARE Happy + Isles! + </p> + <p> + But one day will I take them up, and put each by itself alone: that it may + learn lonesomeness and defiance and prudence. + </p> + <p> + Gnarled and crooked and with flexible hardness shall it then stand by the + sea, a living lighthouse of unconquerable life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + The word blew to me through the keyhole and said “Come!” The door sprang + subtlely open unto me, and said “Go!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But brooding lay the sun of my love upon me, in his own juice stewed + Zarathustra,—then did shadows and doubts fly past me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My past burst its tomb, many pains buried alive woke up—: fully + slept had they merely, concealed in corpse-clothes. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ah, abysmal thought, which art MY thought! When shall I find strength to + hear thee burrowing, and no longer tremble? + </p> + <p> + To my very throat throbbeth my heart when I hear thee burrowing! Thy + muteness even is like to strangle me, thou abysmal mute one! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + O afternoon of my life! O happiness before eventide! O haven upon high + seas! O peace in uncertainty! How I distrust all of you! + </p> + <p> + Verily, distrustful am I of your insidious beauty! Like the lover am I, + who distrusteth too sleek smiling. + </p> + <p> + As he pusheth the best-beloved before him—tender even in severity, + the jealous one—, so do I push this blissful hour before me. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Away with thee, thou blissful hour! Rather harbour there—with my + children! Hasten! and bless them before eventide with MY happiness! + </p> + <p> + There, already approacheth eventide: the sun sinketh. Away—my + happiness!— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLVIII. BEFORE SUNRISE. + </h2></div> + <p> + O heaven above me, thou pure, thou deep heaven! Thou abyss of light! + Gazing on thee, I tremble with divine desires. + </p> + <p> + Up to thy height to toss myself—that is MY depth! In thy purity to + hide myself—that is MINE innocence! + </p> + <p> + The God veileth his beauty: thus hidest thou thy stars. Thou speakest not: + THUS proclaimest thou thy wisdom unto me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In that thou camest unto me beautiful, veiled in thy beauty, in that thou + spakest unto me mutely, obvious in thy wisdom: + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I fail to divine all the modesty of thy soul! BEFORE the sun + didst thou come unto me—the lonesomest one. + </p> + <p> + We have been friends from the beginning: to us are grief, gruesomeness, + and ground common; even the sun is common to us. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Art thou not the light of my fire? Hast thou not the sister-soul of mine + insight? + </p> + <p> + Together did we learn everything; together did we learn to ascend beyond + ourselves to ourselves, and to smile uncloudedly:— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of Hazard”—that is the oldest nobility in the world; that gave I + back to all things; I emancipated them from bondage under purpose. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This wantonness and folly did I put in place of that Will, when I taught + that “In everything there is one thing impossible—rationality!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + A little wisdom is indeed possible; but this blessed security have I found + in all things, that they prefer—<i>to dance</i> on the feet of chance. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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!— + </p> + <p> + But thou blushest? Have I spoken unspeakable things? Have I abused, when I + meant to bless thee? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + O heaven above me, thou modest one! thou glowing one! O thou, my happiness + before sunrise! The day cometh: so let us part!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + XLIX. THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What do these houses mean? Verily, no great soul put them up as its + simile! + </p> + <p> + Did perhaps a silly child take them out of its toy-box? Would that another + child put them again into the box! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + And Zarathustra stood still and meditated. At last he said sorrowfully: + “There hath EVERYTHING become smaller! + </p> + <p> + Everywhere do I see lower doorways: he who is of MY type can still go + therethrough, but—he must stoop! + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + The same day, however, he gave his discourse on the bedwarfing virtue. + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open: they do not forgive me + for not envying their virtues. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I am courteous towards them, as towards all small annoyances; to be + prickly towards what is small, seemeth to me wisdom for hedgehogs. + </p> + <p> + They all speak of me when they sit around their fire in the evening—they + speak of me, but no one thinketh—of me! + </p> + <p> + This is the new stillness which I have experienced: their noise around me + spreadeth a mantle over my thoughts. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + They cough when I speak: they think coughing an objection to strong winds—they + divine nothing of the boisterousness of my happiness! + </p> + <p> + “We have not yet time for Zarathustra”—so they object; but what + matter about a time that “hath no time” for Zarathustra? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To small virtues would they fain lure and laud me; to the ticktack of + small happiness would they fain persuade my foot. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For they are moderate also in virtue,—because they want comfort. + With comfort, however, moderate virtue only is compatible. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And many of them go forward, and look backwards thereby, with stiffened + necks: those do I like to run up against. + </p> + <p> + Foot and eye shall not lie, nor give the lie to each other. But there is + much lying among small people. + </p> + <p> + Some of them WILL, but most of them are WILLED. Some of them are genuine, + but most of them are bad actors. + </p> + <p> + There are actors without knowing it amongst them, and actors without + intending it—, the genuine ones are always rare, especially the + genuine actors. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And this hypocrisy found I worst amongst them, that even those who command + feign the virtues of those who serve. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + So much kindness, so much weakness do I see. So much justice and pity, so + much weakness. + </p> + <p> + Round, fair, and considerate are they to one another, as grains of sand + are round, fair, and considerate to grains of sand. + </p> + <p> + Modestly to embrace a small happiness—that do they call + “submission”! and at the same time they peer modestly after a new small + happiness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That, however, is COWARDICE, though it be called “virtue.”— + </p> + <p> + And when they chance to speak harshly, those small people, then do <i>I</i> + hear therein only their hoarseness—every draught of air maketh them + hoarse. + </p> + <p> + Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues have shrewd fingers. But they lack + fists: their fingers do not know how to creep behind fists. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We set our chair in the MIDST”—so saith their smirking unto me—“and + as far from dying gladiators as from satisfied swine.” + </p> + <p> + That, however, is—MEDIOCRITY, though it be called moderation.— + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + I pass through this people and let fall many words: but they know neither + how to take nor how to retain them. + </p> + <p> + They wonder why I came not to revile venery and vice; and verily, I came + not to warn against pickpockets either! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —Imploring that it might find home and heart with me, and saying + flatteringly: “See, O Zarathustra, how friend only cometh unto friend!”— + </p> + <p> + But why talk I, when no one hath MINE ears! And so will I shout it out + unto all the winds: + </p> + <p> + Ye ever become smaller, ye small people! Ye crumble away, ye comfortable + ones! Ye will yet perish— + </p> + <p> + —By your many small virtues, by your many small omissions, and by + your many small submissions! + </p> + <p> + Too tender, too yielding: so is your soil! But for a tree to become GREAT, + it seeketh to twine hard roots around hard rocks! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Ah, that ye would renounce all HALF-willing, and would decide for idleness + as ye decide for action! + </p> + <p> + Ah, that ye understood my word: “Do ever what ye will—but first be + such as CAN WILL. + </p> + <p> + Love ever your neighbour as yourselves—but first be such as LOVE + THEMSELVES— + </p> + <p> + —Such as love with great love, such as love with great contempt!” + Thus speaketh Zarathustra the godless.— + </p> + <p> + But why talk I, when no one hath MINE ears! It is still an hour too early + for me here. + </p> + <p> + Mine own forerunner am I among this people, mine own cockcrow in dark + lanes. + </p> + <p> + But THEIR hour cometh! And there cometh also mine! Hourly do they become + smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller,—poor herbs! poor earth! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noontide!—Running + fires will I one day make of them, and heralds with flaming tongues:— + </p> + <p> + —Herald shall they one day with flaming tongues: It cometh, it is + nigh, THE GREAT NOONTIDE! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + L. ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT. + </h2></div> + <p> + Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his + friendly hand-shaking. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm—to + the sunny corner of mine olive-mount. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A hard guest is he,—but I honour him, and do not worship, like the + tenderlings, the pot-bellied fire-idol. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Heartily, verily, even when I CREEP into bed—: there, still laugheth + and wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my deceptive dream laugheth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Also do I like to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let the + heavens emerge from ashy-grey twilight. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + Impatiently do I then wait, that the clear sky may finally dawn for me, + the snow-bearded winter-sky, the hoary one, the whitehead,— + </p> + <p> + —The winter-sky, the silent winter-sky, which often stifleth even + its sun! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + A good roguish thing is also the long silence, and to look, like the + winter-sky, out of a clear, round-eyed countenance:— + </p> + <p> + —Like it to stifle one’s sun, and one’s inflexible solar will: + verily, this art and this winter-roguishness have I learnt WELL! + </p> + <p> + My best-loved wickedness and art is it, that my silence hath learned not + to betray itself by silence. + </p> + <p> + Clattering with diction and dice, I outwit the solemn assistants: all + those stern watchers, shall my will and purpose elude. + </p> + <p> + That no one might see down into my depth and into mine ultimate will—for + that purpose did I devise the long clear silence. + </p> + <p> + Many a shrewd one did I find: he veiled his countenance and made his water + muddy, that no one might see therethrough and thereunder. + </p> + <p> + But precisely unto him came the shrewder distrusters and nut-crackers: + precisely from him did they fish his best-concealed fish! + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Thou snow-bearded, silent, winter-sky, thou round-eyed whitehead above me! + Oh, thou heavenly simile of my soul and its wantonness! + </p> + <p> + And MUST I not conceal myself like one who hath swallowed gold—lest + my soul should be ripped up? + </p> + <p> + MUST I not wear stilts, that they may OVERLOOK my long legs—all + those enviers and injurers around me? + </p> + <p> + Those dingy, fire-warmed, used-up, green-tinted, ill-natured souls—how + COULD their envy endure my happiness! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + How COULD they endure my happiness, if I did not put around it accidents, + and winter-privations, and bear-skin caps, and enmantling snowflakes! + </p> + <p> + —If I did not myself commiserate their PITY, the pity of those + enviers and injurers! + </p> + <p> + —If I did not myself sigh before them, and chatter with cold, and + patiently LET myself be swathed in their pity! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To one man, lonesomeness is the flight of the sick one; to another, it is + the flight FROM the sick ones. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Thus sang Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LI. ON PASSING-BY. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + O Zarathustra, here is the great city: here hast thou nothing to seek and + everything to lose. + </p> + <p> + Why wouldst thou wade through this mire? Have pity upon thy foot! Spit + rather on the gate of the city, and—turn back! + </p> + <p> + Here is the hell for anchorites’ thoughts: here are great thoughts seethed + alive and boiled small. + </p> + <p> + Here do all great sentiments decay: here may only rattle-boned sensations + rattle! + </p> + <p> + Smellest thou not already the shambles and cookshops of the spirit? + Steameth not this city with the fumes of slaughtered spirit? + </p> + <p> + Seest thou not the souls hanging like limp dirty rags?—And they make + newspapers also out of these rags! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + All lusts and vices are here at home; but here there are also the + virtuous; there is much appointable appointed virtue:— + </p> + <p> + Much appointable virtue with scribe-fingers, and hardy sitting-flesh and + waiting-flesh, blessed with small breast-stars, and padded, haunchless + daughters. + </p> + <p> + There is here also much piety, and much faithful spittle-licking and + spittle-backing, before the God of Hosts. + </p> + <p> + “From on high,” drippeth the star, and the gracious spittle; for the high, + longeth every starless bosom. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The God of the Hosts of war is not the God of the golden bar; the prince + proposeth, but the shopman—disposeth! + </p> + <p> + By all that is luminous and strong and good in thee, O Zarathustra! Spit + on this city of shopmen and return back! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Spit on the city of compressed souls and slender breasts, of pointed eyes + and sticky fingers— + </p> + <p> + —On the city of the obtrusive, the brazen-faced, the pen-demagogues + and tongue-demagogues, the overheated ambitious:— + </p> + <p> + Where everything maimed, ill-famed, lustful, untrustful, over-mellow, + sickly-yellow and seditious, festereth pernicious:— + </p> + <p> + —Spit on the great city and turn back!— + </p> + <p> + Here, however, did Zarathustra interrupt the foaming fool, and shut his + mouth.— + </p> + <p> + Stop this at once! called out Zarathustra, long have thy speech and thy + species disgusted me! + </p> + <p> + Why didst thou live so long by the swamp, that thou thyself hadst to + become a frog and a toad? + </p> + <p> + Floweth there not a tainted, frothy, swamp-blood in thine own veins, when + thou hast thus learned to croak and revile? + </p> + <p> + Why wentest thou not into the forest? Or why didst thou not till the + ground? Is the sea not full of green islands? + </p> + <p> + I despise thy contempt; and when thou warnedst me—why didst thou not + warn thyself? + </p> + <p> + Out of love alone shall my contempt and my warning bird take wing; but not + out of the swamp!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —That thou mightest have cause for much VENGEANCE! For vengeance, + thou vain fool, is all thy foaming; I have divined thee well! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he look on the great city and sighed, and + was long silent. At last he spake thus: + </p> + <p> + I loathe also this great city, and not only this fool. Here and there— + there is nothing to better, nothing to worsen. + </p> + <p> + Woe to this great city!—And I would that I already saw the pillar of + fire in which it will be consumed! + </p> + <p> + For such pillars of fire must precede the great noontide. But this hath + its time and its own fate.— + </p> + <p> + This precept, however, give I unto thee, in parting, thou fool: Where one + can no longer love, there should one—PASS BY!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra, and passed by the fool and the great city. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LII. THE APOSTATES. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Those young hearts have already all become old—and not old even! + only weary, ordinary, comfortable:—they declare it: “We have again + become pious.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + The rest: these are always the great majority, the common-place, the + superfluous, the far too many—those all are cowardly!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His second companions, however—they will call themselves his + BELIEVERS,—will be a living host, with much love, much folly, much + unbearded veneration. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Let them go and fall away, O Zarathustra, and do not lament! Better even + to blow amongst them with rustling winds,— + </p> + <p> + —Blow amongst those leaves, O Zarathustra, that everything WITHERED + may run away from thee the faster!— + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + “We have again become pious”—so do those apostates confess; and some + of them are still too pusillanimous thus to confess. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Five words about old things did I hear yester-night at the garden-wall: + they came from such old, sorrowful, arid night-watchmen. + </p> + <p> + “For a father he careth not sufficiently for his children: human fathers + do this better!”— + </p> + <p> + “He is too old! He now careth no more for his children,”—answered + the other night-watchman. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Prove? As if HE had ever proved anything! Proving is difficult to him; he + layeth great stress on one’s BELIEVING him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay! Ay! Belief saveth him; belief in him. That is the way with old + people! So it is with us also!”— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Verily, it will be my death yet—to choke with laughter when I see + asses drunken, and hear night-watchmen thus doubt about God. + </p> + <p> + Hath the time not LONG since passed for all such doubts? Who may nowadays + awaken such old slumbering, light-shunning things! + </p> + <p> + With the old Deities hath it long since come to an end:—and verily, + a good joyful Deity-end had they! + </p> + <p> + They did not “begloom” themselves to death—that do people fabricate! + On the contrary, they—LAUGHED themselves to death once on a time! + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + —An old grim-beard of a God, a jealous one, forgot himself in such + wise:— + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + He that hath an ear let him hear.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LIII. THE RETURN HOME. + </h2></div> + <p> + O lonesomeness! My HOME, lonesomeness! Too long have I lived wildly in + wild remoteness, to return to thee without tears! + </p> + <p> + 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?— + </p> + <p> + —Who when departing called out: ‘Too long have I sat with + lonesomeness; there have I unlearned silence!’ THAT hast thou learned now—surely? + </p> + <p> + O Zarathustra, everything do I know; and that thou wert MORE FORSAKEN + amongst the many, thou unique one, than thou ever wert with me! + </p> + <p> + One thing is forsakenness, another matter is lonesomeness: THAT hast thou + now learned! And that amongst men thou wilt ever be wild and strange: + </p> + <p> + —Wild and strange even when they love thee: for above all they want + to be TREATED INDULGENTLY! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —When thou spakest: ‘Let mine animals lead me! More dangerous have I + found it among men than among animals:’—THAT was forsakenness! + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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!’— + </p> + <p> + —When it disgusted thee with all thy waiting and silence, and + discouraged thy humble courage: THAT was forsakenness!”— + </p> + <p> + O lonesomeness! My home, lonesomeness! How blessedly and tenderly speaketh + thy voice unto me! + </p> + <p> + We do not question each other, we do not complain to each other; we go + together openly through open doors. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Down there, however—all talking is in vain! There, forgetting and + passing-by are the best wisdom: THAT have I learned now! + </p> + <p> + He who would understand everything in man must handle everything. But for + that I have too clean hands. + </p> + <p> + I do not like even to inhale their breath; alas! that I have lived so long + among their noise and bad breaths! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Everything among them talketh; no one knoweth any longer how to + understand. Everything falleth into the water; nothing falleth any longer + into deep wells. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + O human hubbub, thou wonderful thing! Thou noise in dark streets! Now art + thou again behind me:—my greatest danger lieth behind me! + </p> + <p> + In indulging and pitying lay ever my greatest danger; and all human hubbub + wisheth to be indulged and tolerated. + </p> + <p> + With suppressed truths, with fool’s hand and befooled heart, and rich in + petty lies of pity:—thus have I ever lived among men. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —That I saw and scented in every one, what was ENOUGH of spirit for + him, and what was TOO MUCH! + </p> + <p> + Their stiff wise men: I call them wise, not stiff—thus did I learn + to slur over words. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + With blessed nostrils do I again breathe mountain-freedom. Freed at last + is my nose from the smell of all human hubbub! + </p> + <p> + With sharp breezes tickled, as with sparkling wine, SNEEZETH my soul— + sneezeth, and shouteth self-congratulatingly: “Health to thee!” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LIV. THE THREE EVIL THINGS. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + How confidently did my dream contemplate this finite world, not + new-fangledly, not old-fangledly, not timidly, not entreatingly:— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + 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?— + </p> + <p> + Now stand the scales poised and at rest: three heavy questions have I + thrown in; three heavy answers carrieth the other scale. + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Voluptuousness: to free hearts, a thing innocent and free, the + garden-happiness of the earth, all the future’s thanks-overflow to the + present. + </p> + <p> + Voluptuousness: only to the withered a sweet poison; to the lion-willed, + however, the great cordial, and the reverently saved wine of wines. + </p> + <p> + Voluptuousness: the great symbolic happiness of a higher happiness and + highest hope. For to many is marriage promised, and more than marriage,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + Voluptuousness:—but I will have hedges around my thoughts, and even + around my words, lest swine and libertine should break into my gardens!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—, + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + Oh, who could find the right prenomen and honouring name for such longing! + “Bestowing virtue”—thus did Zarathustra once name the unnamable. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —From the powerful soul, to which the high body appertaineth, the + handsome, triumphing, refreshing body, around which everything becometh a + mirror: + </p> + <p> + —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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + But to all those cometh now the day, the change, the sword of judgment, + THE GREAT NOONTIDE: then shall many things be revealed! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LV. THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My hand—is a fool’s hand: woe unto all tables and walls, and + whatever hath room for fool’s sketching, fool’s scrawling! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My stomach—is surely an eagle’s stomach? For it preferreth lamb’s + flesh. Certainly it is a bird’s stomach. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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>I</i> teach. + </p> + <p> + Not, to be sure, with the love of the sick and infected, for with them + stinketh even self-love! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And therefore suffereth one little children to come unto one, to forbid + them betimes to love themselves—so causeth the spirit of gravity. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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;— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Women know that, the choicest of them: a little fatter a little leaner— + oh, how much fate is in so little! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Verily, neither do I like those who call everything good, and this world + the best of all. Those do I call the all-satisfied. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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;— + </p> + <p> + —To flicker like small flames on high masts: a small light, + certainly, but a great comfort to cast-away sailors and shipwrecked ones! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And unwillingly only did I ask my way—that was always counter to my + taste! Rather did I question and test the ways themselves. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —Neither a good nor a bad taste, but MY taste, of which I have no + longer either shame or secrecy. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LVI. OLD AND NEW TABLES. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + Here do I sit and wait, old broken tables around me and also new + half-written tables. When cometh mine hour? + </p> + <p> + —The hour of my descent, of my down-going: for once more will I go + unto men. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile do I talk to myself as one who hath time. No one telleth me + anything new, so I tell myself mine own story. + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This somnolence did I disturb when I taught that NO ONE YET KNOWETH what + is good and bad:—unless it be the creating one! + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At their gloomy sages did I bid them laugh, and whoever had sat + admonishing as a black scarecrow on the tree of life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus did my wise longing, born in the mountains, cry and laugh in me; a + wild wisdom, verily!—my great pinion-rustling longing. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —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: + </p> + <p> + (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!) + </p> + <p> + Where all becoming seemed to me dancing of Gods, and wantoning of Gods, + and the world unloosed and unbridled and fleeing back to itself:— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + Where all time seemed to me a blessed mockery of moments, where necessity + was freedom itself, which played happily with the goad of freedom:— + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + 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?— + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + There was it also where I picked up from the path the word “Superman,” and + that man is something that must be surpassed. + </p> + <p> + —That man is a bridge and not a goal—rejoicing over his + noontides and evenings, as advances to new rosy dawns: + </p> + <p> + —The Zarathustra word of the great noontide, and whatever else I + have hung up over men like purple evening-afterglows. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I taught them all MY poetisation and aspiration: to compose and collect + into unity what is fragment in man, and riddle and fearful chance;— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + —This did I call redemption; this alone taught I them to call + redemption.— + </p> + <p> + Now do I await MY redemption—that I may go unto them for the last + time. + </p> + <p> + For once more will I go unto men: AMONGST them will my sun set; in dying + will I give them my choicest gift! + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 4. + </p> + <p> + 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?— + </p> + <p> + Thus demandeth my great love to the remotest ones: BE NOT CONSIDERATE OF + THY NEIGHBOUR! Man is something that must be surpassed. + </p> + <p> + There are many divers ways and modes of surpassing: see THOU thereto! But + only a buffoon thinketh: “man can also be OVERLEAPT.” + </p> + <p> + Surpass thyself even in thy neighbour: and a right which thou canst seize + upon, shalt thou not allow to be given thee! + </p> + <p> + What thou doest can no one do to thee again. Lo, there is no requital. + </p> + <p> + He who cannot command himself shall obey. And many a one CAN command + himself, but still sorely lacketh self-obedience! + </p> + <p> + 5. + </p> + <p> + Thus wisheth the type of noble souls: they desire to have nothing + GRATUITOUSLY, least of all, life. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And verily, it is a noble dictum which saith: “What life promiseth US, + that promise will WE keep—to life!” + </p> + <p> + One should not wish to enjoy where one doth not contribute to the + enjoyment. And one should not WISH to enjoy! + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + 6. + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, he who is a firstling is ever sacrificed. Now, however, are + we firstlings! + </p> + <p> + We all bleed on secret sacrificial altars, we all burn and broil in honour + of ancient idols. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 7. + </p> + <p> + To be true—that CAN few be! And he who can, will not! Least of all, + however, can the good be true. + </p> + <p> + Oh, those good ones! GOOD MEN NEVER SPEAK THE TRUTH. For the spirit, thus + to be good, is a malady. + </p> + <p> + They yield, those good ones, they submit themselves; their heart + repeateth, their soul obeyeth: HE, however, who obeyeth, DOTH NOT LISTEN + TO HIMSELF! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + BESIDE the bad conscience hath hitherto grown all KNOWLEDGE! Break up, + break up, ye discerning ones, the old tables! + </p> + <p> + 8. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + But even the simpletons contradict him. “What?” say the simpletons, “all + in flux? Planks and railings are still OVER the stream! + </p> + <p> + “OVER the stream all is stable, all the values of things, the bridges and + bearings, all ‘good’ and ‘evil’: these are all STABLE!”— + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Fundamentally standeth everything still”—: but CONTRARY thereto, + preacheth the thawing wind! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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”? + </p> + <p> + “Woe to us! Hail to us! The thawing wind bloweth!”—Thus preach, my + brethren, through all the streets! + </p> + <p> + 9. + </p> + <p> + There is an old illusion—it is called good and evil. Around + soothsayers and astrologers hath hitherto revolved the orbit of this + illusion. + </p> + <p> + Once did one BELIEVE in soothsayers and astrologers; and THEREFORE did one + believe, “Everything is fate: thou shalt, for thou must!” + </p> + <p> + Then again did one distrust all soothsayers and astrologers; and THEREFORE + did one believe, “Everything is freedom: thou canst, for thou willest!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 10. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + But I ask you: Where have there ever been better robbers and slayers in + the world than such holy precepts? + </p> + <p> + Is there not even in all life—robbing and slaying? And for such + precepts to be called holy, was not TRUTH itself thereby—slain? + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 11. + </p> + <p> + It is my sympathy with all the past that I see it is abandoned,— + </p> + <p> + —Abandoned to the favour, the spirit and the madness of every + generation that cometh, and reinterpreteth all that hath been as its + bridge! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 12. + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, I consecrate you and point you to a new nobility: ye shall + become procreators and cultivators and sowers of the future;— + </p> + <p> + —Verily, not to a nobility which ye could purchase like traders with + traders’ gold; for little worth is all that hath its price. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + (For ABILITY-to-stand is a merit in courtiers; and all courtiers believe + that unto blessedness after death pertaineth—PERMISSION-to-sit!) + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + —And verily, wherever this “Holy Spirit” led its knights, always in + such campaigns did—goats and geese, and wryheads and guyheads run + FOREMOST!— + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, not backward shall your nobility gaze, but OUTWARD! Exiles + shall ye be from all fatherlands and forefather-lands! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 13. + </p> + <p> + “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.”— + </p> + <p> + Such ancient babbling still passeth for “wisdom”; because it is old, + however, and smelleth mustily, THEREFORE is it the more honoured. Even + mould ennobleth.— + </p> + <p> + Children might thus speak: they SHUN the fire because it hath burnt them! + There is much childishness in the old books of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + And he who ever “thrasheth straw,” why should he be allowed to rail at + thrashing! Such a fool one would have to muzzle! + </p> + <p> + Such persons sit down to the table and bring nothing with them, not even + good hunger:—and then do they rail: “All is vain!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 14. + </p> + <p> + “To the clean are all things clean”—thus say the people. I, however, + say unto you: To the swine all things become swinish! + </p> + <p> + Therefore preach the visionaries and bowed-heads (whose hearts are also + bowed down): “The world itself is a filthy monster.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + There is in the world much filth: SO MUCH is true! But the world itself is + not therefore a filthy monster! + </p> + <p> + There is wisdom in the fact that much in the world smelleth badly: + loathing itself createth wings, and fountain-divining powers! + </p> + <p> + In the best there is still something to loathe; and the best is still + something that must be surpassed!— + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, there is much wisdom in the fact that much filth is in the + world!— + </p> + <p> + 15. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let the world be as it is! Raise not a finger against it!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.”— + </p> + <p> + —Shatter, shatter, O my brethren, those old tables of the pious! + Tatter the maxims of the world-maligners!— + </p> + <p> + 16. + </p> + <p> + “He who learneth much unlearneth all violent cravings”—that do + people now whisper to one another in all the dark lanes. + </p> + <p> + “Wisdom wearieth, nothing is worth while; thou shalt not crave!”—this + new table found I hanging even in the public markets. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + 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;— + </p> + <p> + —For a ruined stomach, is their spirit: IT persuadeth to death! For + verily, my brethren, the spirit IS a stomach! + </p> + <p> + Life is a well of delight, but to him in whom the ruined stomach speaketh, + the father of affliction, all fountains are poisoned. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, a fresh blustering wind cometh Zarathustra unto all + way-weary ones; many noses will he yet make sneeze! + </p> + <p> + Even through walls bloweth my free breath, and in into prisons and + imprisoned spirits! + </p> + <p> + Willing emancipateth: for willing is creating: so do I teach. And ONLY for + creating shall ye learn! + </p> + <p> + And also the learning shall ye LEARN only from me, the learning well!—He + who hath ears let him hear! + </p> + <p> + 17. + </p> + <p> + There standeth the boat—thither goeth it over, perhaps into vast + nothingness—but who willeth to enter into this “Perhaps”? + </p> + <p> + None of you want to enter into the death-boat! How should ye then be + WORLD-WEARY ones! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + There are on the earth many good inventions, some useful, some pleasant: + for their sake is the earth to be loved. + </p> + <p> + And many such good inventions are there, that they are like woman’s + breasts: useful at the same time, and pleasant. + </p> + <p> + Ye world-weary ones, however! Ye earth-idlers! You, shall one beat with + stripes! With stripes shall one again make you sprightly limbs. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + To the incurable shall one not seek to be a physician: thus teacheth + Zarathustra:—so shall ye pass away! + </p> + <p> + But more COURAGE is needed to make an end than to make a new verse: that + do all physicians and poets know well.— + </p> + <p> + 18. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Now gloweth the sun upon him, and the dogs lick at his sweat: but he lieth + there in his obstinacy and preferreth to languish:— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + Better still that ye let him lie where he hath lain down, that sleep may + come unto him, the comforter, with cooling patter-rain. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Only, my brethren, see that ye scare the dogs away from him, the idle + skulkers, and all the swarming vermin:— + </p> + <p> + —All the swarming vermin of the “cultured,” that—feast on the + sweat of every hero!— + </p> + <p> + 19. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + But wherever ye would ascend with me, O my brethren, take care lest a + PARASITE ascend with you! + </p> + <p> + A parasite: that is a reptile, a creeping, cringing reptile, that trieth + to fatten on your infirm and sore places. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For the soul which hath the longest ladder, and can go deepest down: how + could there fail to be most parasites upon it?— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + —The soul in Being, which plungeth into Becoming; the possessing + soul, which SEEKETH to attain desire and longing:— + </p> + <p> + —The soul fleeing from itself, which overtaketh itself in the widest + circuit; the wisest soul, unto which folly speaketh most sweetly:— + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 20. + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, am I then cruel? But I say: What falleth, that shall one + also push! + </p> + <p> + Everything of to-day—it falleth, it decayeth; who would preserve it! + But I—I wish also to push it! + </p> + <p> + Know ye the delight which rolleth stones into precipitous depths?—Those + men of to-day, see just how they roll into my depths! + </p> + <p> + A prelude am I to better players, O my brethren! An example! DO according + to mine example! + </p> + <p> + And him whom ye do not teach to fly, teach I pray you—TO FALL + FASTER!— + </p> + <p> + 21. + </p> + <p> + I love the brave: but it is not enough to be a swordsman,—one must + also know WHEREON to use swordsmanship! + </p> + <p> + And often is it greater bravery to keep quiet and pass by, that THEREBY + one may reserve oneself for a worthier foe! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For the worthier foe, O my brethren, shall ye reserve yourselves: + therefore must ye pass by many a one,— + </p> + <p> + —Especially many of the rabble, who din your ears with noise about + people and peoples. + </p> + <p> + Keep your eye clear of their For and Against! There is there much right, + much wrong: he who looketh on becometh wroth. + </p> + <p> + Therein viewing, therein hewing—they are the same thing: therefore + depart into the forests and lay your sword to sleep! + </p> + <p> + Go YOUR ways! and let the people and peoples go theirs!—gloomy ways, + verily, on which not a single hope glinteth any more! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + See how these peoples themselves now do just like the traders: they pick + up the smallest advantage out of all kinds of rubbish! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + For, my brethren, the best shall rule, the best also WILLETH to rule! And + where the teaching is different, there—the best is LACKING. + </p> + <p> + 22. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Better beasts of prey shall they thus become, subtler, cleverer, MORE + MAN-LIKE: for man is the best beast of prey. + </p> + <p> + All the animals hath man already robbed of their virtues: that is why of + all animals it hath been hardest for man. + </p> + <p> + Only the birds are still beyond him. And if man should yet learn to fly, + alas! TO WHAT HEIGHT—would his rapacity fly! + </p> + <p> + 23. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 24. + </p> + <p> + Your marriage-arranging: see that it be not a bad ARRANGING! Ye have + arranged too hastily: so there FOLLOWETH therefrom—marriage-breaking! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + The badly paired found I ever the most revengeful: they make every one + suffer for it that they no longer run singly. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + —“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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Not only to propagate yourselves onwards but UPWARDS—thereto, O my + brethren, may the garden of marriage help you! + </p> + <p> + 25. + </p> + <p> + He who hath grown wise concerning old origins, lo, he will at last seek + after the fountains of the future and new origins.— + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, not long will it be until NEW PEOPLES shall arise and new + fountains shall rush down into new depths. + </p> + <p> + For the earthquake—it choketh up many wells, it causeth much + languishing: but it bringeth also to light inner powers and secrets. + </p> + <p> + The earthquake discloseth new fountains. In the earthquake of old peoples + new fountains burst forth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Who can command, who must obey—THAT IS THERE ATTEMPTED! Ah, with + what long seeking and solving and failing and learning and re-attempting! + </p> + <p> + Human society: it is an attempt—so I teach—a long seeking: it + seeketh however the ruler!— + </p> + <p> + —An attempt, my brethren! And NO “contract”! Destroy, I pray you, + destroy that word of the soft-hearted and half-and-half! + </p> + <p> + 26. + </p> + <p> + O my brethren! With whom lieth the greatest danger to the whole human + future? Is it not with the good and just?— + </p> + <p> + —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!” + </p> + <p> + And whatever harm the wicked may do, the harm of the good is the + harmfulest harm! + </p> + <p> + And whatever harm the world-maligners may do, the harm of the good is the + harmfulest harm! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It is the truth, however, that the good MUST be Pharisees—they have + no choice! + </p> + <p> + The good MUST crucify him who deviseth his own virtue! That IS the truth! + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + The CREATOR, hate they most, him who breaketh the tables and old values, + the breaker,—him they call the law-breaker. + </p> + <p> + For the good—they CANNOT create; they are always the beginning of + the end:— + </p> + <p> + —They crucify him who writeth new values on new tables, they + sacrifice UNTO THEMSELVES the future—they crucify the whole human + future! + </p> + <p> + The good—they have always been the beginning of the end.— + </p> + <p> + 27. + </p> + <p> + O my brethren, have ye also understood this word? And what I once said of + the “last man”?— + </p> + <p> + With whom lieth the greatest danger to the whole human future? Is it not + with the good and just? + </p> + <p> + BREAK UP, BREAK UP, I PRAY YOU, THE GOOD AND JUST!—O my brethren, + have ye understood also this word? + </p> + <p> + 28. + </p> + <p> + Ye flee from me? Ye are frightened? Ye tremble at this word? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now only cometh unto him the great terror, the great outlook, the + great sickness, the great nausea, the great sea-sickness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Keep yourselves up betimes, my brethren, learn to keep yourselves up! The + sea stormeth: many seek to raise themselves again by you. + </p> + <p> + The sea stormeth: all is in the sea. Well! Cheer up! Ye old seaman-hearts! + </p> + <p> + What of fatherland! THITHER striveth our helm where our CHILDREN’S LAND + is! Thitherwards, stormier than the sea, stormeth our great longing!— + </p> + <p> + 29. + </p> + <p> + “Why so hard!”—said to the diamond one day the charcoal; “are we + then not near relatives?”— + </p> + <p> + Why so soft? O my brethren; thus do <i>I</i> ask you: are ye then not—my + brethren? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + And if ye will not be fates and inexorable ones, how can ye one day— + conquer with me? + </p> + <p> + And if your hardness will not glance and cut and chip to pieces, how can + ye one day—create with me? + </p> + <p> + For the creators are hard. And blessedness must it seem to you to press + your hand upon millenniums as upon wax,— + </p> + <p> + —Blessedness to write upon the will of millenniums as upon brass,—harder + than brass, nobler than brass. Entirely hard is only the noblest. + </p> + <p> + This new table, O my brethren, put I up over you: BECOME HARD!— + </p> + <p> + 30. + </p> + <p> + O thou, my Will! Thou change of every need, MY needfulness! Preserve me + from all small victories! + </p> + <p> + Thou fatedness of my soul, which I call fate! Thou In-me! Over-me! + Preserve and spare me for one great fate! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Ah, whose eye hath not bedimmed in this intoxicated twilight! Ah, whose + foot hath not faltered and forgotten in victory—how to stand!— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + —Ready for myself and for my most hidden Will: a bow eager for its + arrow, an arrow eager for its star:— + </p> + <p> + —A star, ready and ripe in its noontide, glowing, pierced, blessed, + by annihilating sun-arrows:— + </p> + <p> + —A sun itself, and an inexorable sun-will, ready for annihilation in + victory! + </p> + <p> + O Will, thou change of every need, MY needfulness! Spare me for one great + victory!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LVII. THE CONVALESCENT. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thou stirrest, stretchest thyself, wheezest? Up! Up! Not wheeze, shalt + thou,—but speak unto me! Zarathustra calleth thee, Zarathustra the + godless! + </p> + <p> + I, Zarathustra, the advocate of living, the advocate of suffering, the + advocate of the circuit—thee do I call, my most abysmal thought! + </p> + <p> + Joy to me! Thou comest,—I hear thee! Mine abyss SPEAKETH, my lowest + depth have I turned over into the light! + </p> + <p> + Joy to me! Come hither! Give me thy hand—ha! let be! aha!—Disgust, + disgust, disgust—alas to me! + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “O Zarathustra,” said they, “now hast thou lain thus for seven days with + heavy eyes: wilt thou not set thyself again upon thy feet? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.—” + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and tones + rainbows and seeming bridges ‘twixt the eternally separated? + </p> + <p> + To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a + back-world. + </p> + <p> + Among the most alike doth semblance deceive most delightfully: for the + smallest gap is most difficult to bridge over. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + How lovely is all speech and all falsehoods of tones! With tones danceth + our love on variegated rainbows.— + </p> + <p> + —“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. + </p> + <p> + Everything goeth, everything returneth; eternally rolleth the wheel of + existence. Everything dieth, everything blossometh forth again; eternally + runneth on the year of existence. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Every moment beginneth existence, around every ‘Here’ rolleth the ball + ‘There.’ The middle is everywhere. Crooked is the path of eternity.”— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + —And how that monster crept into my throat and choked me! But I bit + off its head and spat it away from me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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:— + </p> + <p> + Not to THIS torture-stake was I tied, that I know man is bad,—but I + cried, as no one hath yet cried: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that his baddest is so very small! Ah, that his best is so very + small!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + A long twilight limped on before me, a fatally weary, fatally intoxicated + sadness, which spake with yawning mouth. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + A cavern, became the human earth to me; its breast caved in; everything + living became to me human dust and bones and mouldering past. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —“Ah, man returneth eternally! The small man returneth eternally!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do not speak further, thou convalescent!”—so answered his animals, + “but go out where the world waiteth for thee like a garden. + </p> + <p> + Go out unto the roses, the bees, and the flocks of doves! Especially, + however, unto the singing birds, to learn SINGING from them! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + —“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! + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + —“Do not talk further,” answered his animals once more; “rather, + thou convalescent, prepare for thyself first a lyre, a new lyre! + </p> + <p> + For behold, O Zarathustra! For thy new lays there are needed new lyres. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + That thou must be the first to teach this teaching—how could this + great fate not be thy greatest danger and infirmity! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thou wouldst speak, and without trembling, buoyant rather with bliss, for + a great weight and worry would be taken from thee, thou patientest one!— + </p> + <p> + ‘Now do I die and disappear,’ wouldst thou say, ‘and in a moment I am + nothing. Souls are as mortal as bodies. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —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,— + </p> + <p> + —To speak again the word of the great noontide of earth and man, to + announce again to man the Superman. + </p> + <p> + I have spoken my word. I break down by my word: so willeth mine eternal + fate—as announcer do I succumb! + </p> + <p> + The hour hath now come for the down-goer to bless himself. Thus—ENDETH + Zarathustra’s down-going.’”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LVIII. THE GREAT LONGING. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + O my soul, I delivered thee from all by-places, I brushed down from thee + dust and spiders and twilight. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom to drink, all new wines, and + also all immemorially old strong wines of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine with + swelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes:— + </p> + <p> + —Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance, + and yet ashamed of thy waiting. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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?— + </p> + <p> + —Doth the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Is + bestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not—pitying?”— + </p> + <p> + O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine + over-abundance itself now stretcheth out longing hands! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn + calm to hearken unto thy longing,— + </p> + <p> + —Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, + around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:— + </p> + <p> + —Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light + marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths,— + </p> + <p> + —Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: + he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife,— + </p> + <p> + —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,— + </p> + <p> + —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!— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LIX. THE SECOND DANCE-SONG. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + “Into thine eyes gazed I lately, O Life: gold saw I gleam in thy + night-eyes,—my heart stood still with delight: + </p> + <p> + —A golden bark saw I gleam on darkened waters, a sinking, drinking, + reblinking, golden swing-bark! + </p> + <p> + At my dance-frantic foot, dost thou cast a glance, a laughing, + questioning, melting, thrown glance: + </p> + <p> + Twice only movedst thou thy rattle with thy little hands—then did my + feet swing with dance-fury.— + </p> + <p> + My heels reared aloft, my toes they hearkened,—thee they would know: + hath not the dancer his ear—in his toe! + </p> + <p> + Unto thee did I spring: then fledst thou back from my bound; and towards + me waved thy fleeing, flying tresses round! + </p> + <p> + Away from thee did I spring, and from thy snaky tresses: then stoodst thou + there half-turned, and in thine eye caresses. + </p> + <p> + With crooked glances—dost thou teach me crooked courses; on crooked + courses learn my feet—crafty fancies! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + For thee, whose coldness inflameth, whose hatred misleadeth, whose flight + enchaineth, whose mockery—pleadeth: + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + Whither pullest thou me now, thou paragon and tomboy? And now foolest thou + me fleeing; thou sweet romp dost annoy! + </p> + <p> + I dance after thee, I follow even faint traces lonely. Where art thou? + Give me thy hand! Or thy finger only! + </p> + <p> + Here are caves and thickets: we shall go astray!—Halt! Stand still! + Seest thou not owls and bats in fluttering fray? + </p> + <p> + Thou bat! Thou owl! Thou wouldst play me foul? Where are we? From the dogs + hast thou learned thus to bark and howl. + </p> + <p> + Thou gnashest on me sweetly with little white teeth; thine evil eyes shoot + out upon me, thy curly little mane from underneath! + </p> + <p> + This is a dance over stock and stone: I am the hunter,—wilt thou be + my hound, or my chamois anon? + </p> + <p> + Now beside me! And quickly, wickedly springing! Now up! And over!—Alas! + I have fallen myself overswinging! + </p> + <p> + Oh, see me lying, thou arrogant one, and imploring grace! Gladly would I + walk with thee—in some lovelier place! + </p> + <p> + —In the paths of love, through bushes variegated, quiet, trim! Or + there along the lake, where gold-fishes dance and swim! + </p> + <p> + Thou art now aweary? There above are sheep and sun-set stripes: is it not + sweet to sleep—the shepherd pipes? + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + To the rhythm of my whip shalt thou dance and cry! I forget not my whip?—Not + I!”— + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + Then did Life answer me thus, and kept thereby her fine ears closed: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + If thy Wisdom should one day run away from thee, ah! then would also my + love run away from thee quickly.”— + </p> + <p> + Thereupon did Life look thoughtfully behind and around, and said softly: + “O Zarathustra, thou art not faithful enough to me! + </p> + <p> + Thou lovest me not nearly so much as thou sayest; I know thou thinkest of + soon leaving me. + </p> + <p> + There is an old heavy, heavy, booming-clock: it boometh by night up to thy + cave:— + </p> + <p> + —When thou hearest this clock strike the hours at midnight, then + thinkest thou between one and twelve thereon— + </p> + <p> + —Thou thinkest thereon, O Zarathustra, I know it—of soon + leaving me!”— + </p> + <p> + “Yea,” answered I, hesitatingly, “but thou knowest it also”—And I + said something into her ear, in amongst her confused, yellow, foolish + tresses. + </p> + <p> + “Thou KNOWEST that, O Zarathustra? That knoweth no one—” + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + <i>One!</i> + </p> + <p> + O man! Take heed! + </p> + <p> + <i>Two!</i> + </p> + <p> + What saith deep midnight’s voice indeed? + </p> + <p> + <i>Three!</i> + </p> + <p> + “I slept my sleep— + </p> + <p> + <i>Four!</i> + </p> + <p> + “From deepest dream I’ve woke and plead:— + </p> + <p> + <i>Five!</i> + </p> + <p> + “The world is deep, + </p> + <p> + <i>Six!</i> + </p> + <p> + “And deeper than the day could read. + </p> + <p> + <i>Seven!</i> + </p> + <p> + “Deep is its woe— + </p> + <p> + <i>Eight!</i> + </p> + <p> + “Joy—deeper still than grief can be: + </p> + <p> + <i>Nine!</i> + </p> + <p> + “Woe saith: Hence! Go! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ten!</i> + </p> + <p> + “But joys all want eternity— + </p> + <p> + <i>Eleven!</i> + </p> + <p> + “Want deep profound eternity!” + </p> + <p> + <i>Twelve!</i> + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LX. THE SEVEN SEALS. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + (OR THE YE-A AND AMEN LAY.) + </div> + <p> + 1. + </p> + <p> + If I be a diviner and full of the divining spirit which wandereth on high + mountain-ridges, ‘twixt two seas,— + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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!— + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity and for the marriage-ring of + rings—the ring of the return? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY! 2. + </p> + <p> + If ever my wrath hath burst graves, shifted landmarks, or rolled old + shattered tables into precipitous depths: + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + If ever I have sat rejoicing where old Gods lie buried, world-blessing, + world-loving, beside the monuments of old world-maligners:— + </p> + <p> + —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— + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of + rings—the ring of the return? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY! 3. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + If ever I have laughed with the laughter of the creative lightning, to + which the long thunder of the deed followeth, grumblingly, but obediently: + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —For a divine table is the earth, and trembling with new creative + dictums and dice-casts of the Gods: + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of + rings—the ring of the return? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY! 4. + </p> + <p> + If ever I have drunk a full draught of the foaming spice- and + confection-bowl in which all things are well mixed: + </p> + <p> + If ever my hand hath mingled the furthest with the nearest, fire with + spirit, joy with sorrow, and the harshest with the kindest: + </p> + <p> + If I myself am a grain of the saving salt which maketh everything in the + confection-bowl mix well:— + </p> + <p> + —For there is a salt which uniteth good with evil; and even the + evilest is worthy, as spicing and as final over-foaming:— + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of + rings—the ring of the return? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY! 5. + </p> + <p> + If I be fond of the sea, and all that is sealike, and fondest of it when + it angrily contradicteth me: + </p> + <p> + If the exploring delight be in me, which impelleth sails to the + undiscovered, if the seafarer’s delight be in my delight: + </p> + <p> + If ever my rejoicing hath called out: “The shore hath vanished,—now + hath fallen from me the last chain— + </p> + <p> + The boundless roareth around me, far away sparkle for me space and time,—well! + cheer up! old heart!”— + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of + rings—the ring of the return? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY! 6. + </p> + <p> + If my virtue be a dancer’s virtue, and if I have often sprung with both + feet into golden-emerald rapture: + </p> + <p> + If my wickedness be a laughing wickedness, at home among rose-banks and + hedges of lilies: + </p> + <p> + —For in laughter is all evil present, but it is sanctified and + absolved by its own bliss:— + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of + rings—the ring of the return? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY! 7. + </p> + <p> + If ever I have spread out a tranquil heaven above me, and have flown into + mine own heaven with mine own pinions: + </p> + <p> + If I have swum playfully in profound luminous distances, and if my + freedom’s avian wisdom hath come to me:— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + —Are not all words made for the heavy? Do not all words lie to the + light ones? Sing! speak no more!”— + </p> + <p> + Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of + rings—the ring of the return? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY! <a id="link2H_4_0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + FOURTH AND LAST PART. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their + pity! + </p> + <p> + Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: “Even God hath his hell: it + is his love for man.” + </p> + <p> + And lately did I hear him say these words: “God is dead: of his pity for + man hath God died.”—ZARATHUSTRA, II., “The Pitiful.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXI. THE HONEY SACRIFICE. + </h2></div> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + “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.”— + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What to sacrifice! I squander what is given me, a squanderer with a + thousand hands: how could I call that—sacrificing? + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —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; + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + —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;— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + For my fate giveth me time: it hath forgotten me perhaps? Or doth it sit + behind a big stone and catch flies? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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; + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXII. THE CRY OF DISTRESS. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + —“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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “But thou knowest it, certainly,” answered the soothsayer warmly, “why + dost thou conceal thyself? It is THE HIGHER MAN that crieth for thee!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + But all is alike, nothing is worth while, no seeking is of service, there + are no longer any Happy Isles!”— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He is in MY domain: therein shall he receive no scath! And verily, there + are many evil beasts about me.”— + </p> + <p> + With those words Zarathustra turned around to depart. Then said the + soothsayer: “O Zarathustra, thou art a rogue! + </p> + <p> + I know it well: thou wouldst fain be rid of me! Rather wouldst thou run + into the forest and lay snares for evil beasts! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “So be it!” shouted back Zarathustra, as he went away: “and what is mine + in my cave belongeth also unto thee, my guest! + </p> + <p> + 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; + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + Thou dost not believe this? Thou shakest thy head? Well! Cheer up, old + bear! But I also—am a soothsayer.” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXIII. TALK WITH THE KINGS. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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’? + </p> + <p> + Better, verily, to live among anchorites and goatherds, than with our + gilded, false, over-rouged populace—though it call itself ‘good + society.’ + </p> + <p> + —Though it call itself ‘nobility.’ But there all is false and foul, + above all the blood—thanks to old evil diseases and worse curers. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Populace-hodgepodge: therein is everything mixed with everything, saint + and swindler, gentleman and Jew, and every beast out of Noah’s ark. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + We ARE NOT the first men—and have nevertheless to STAND FOR them: of + this imposture have we at last become weary and disgusted. + </p> + <p> + 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; + </p> + <p> + —Fie, to stand for the first men among the rabble! Ah, loathing! + Loathing! Loathing! What doth it now matter about us kings!”— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Immediately thereupon, Zarathustra, who had opened ears and eyes to this + talk, rose from his hiding-place, advanced towards the kings, and thus + began: + </p> + <p> + “He who hearkeneth unto you, he who gladly hearkeneth unto you, is called + Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + 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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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>I</i> seek: + namely, the higher man.” + </p> + <p> + When the kings heard this, they beat upon their breasts and said with one + voice: “We are recognised! + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!’”— + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + (Here, however, it happened that the ass also found utterance: it said + distinctly and with malevolence, Y-E-A.) + </p> + <p> + ‘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!” + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!’ + </p> + <p> + No one ever spake such warlike words: ‘What is good? To be brave is good. + It is the good war that halloweth every cause.’ + </p> + <p> + O Zarathustra, our fathers’ blood stirred in our veins at such words: it + was like the voice of spring to old wine-casks. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + It will honour my cave if kings want to sit and wait in it: but, to be + sure, ye will have to wait long! + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXIV. THE LEECH. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + —“Whoever thou art,” said the trodden one, still enraged, “thou + treadest also too nigh me with thy parable, and not only with thy foot! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Call me however what thou wilt—I am who I must be. I call myself + Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + Well! Up thither is the way to Zarathustra’s cave: it is not far,—wilt + thou not attend to thy wounds at my home? + </p> + <p> + It hath gone badly with thee, thou unfortunate one, in this life: first a + beast bit thee, and then—a man trod upon thee!”— + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + —A handbreadth of basis: thereon can one stand. In the true + knowing-knowledge there is nothing great and nothing small.” + </p> + <p> + “Then thou art perhaps an expert on the leech?” asked Zarathustra; “and + thou investigatest the leech to its ultimate basis, thou conscientious + one?” + </p> + <p> + “O Zarathustra,” answered the trodden one, “that would be something + immense; how could I presume to do so! + </p> + <p> + That, however, of which I am master and knower, is the BRAIN of the leech:—that + is MY world! + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + —“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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXV. THE MAGICIAN. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + I will soon make warm legs to thee, thou evil magician: I know well how—to + make it hot for such as thou!” + </p> + <p> + —“Leave off,” said the old man, and sprang up from the ground, + “strike me no more, O Zarathustra! I did it only for amusement! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + —“Flatter not,” answered Zarathustra, still excited and frowning, + “thou stage-player from the heart! Thou art false: why speakest thou—of + truth! + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “THE PENITENT IN SPIRIT,” said the old man, “it was him—I + represented; thou thyself once devisedst this expression— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thou bad false coiner, how couldst thou do otherwise! Thy very malady + wouldst thou whitewash if thou showed thyself naked to thy physician. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + —“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: + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + A great man I wanted to appear, and persuaded many; but the lie hath been + beyond my power. On it do I collapse. + </p> + <p> + O Zarathustra, everything is a lie in me; but that I collapse—this + my collapsing is GENUINE!”— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?— + </p> + <p> + —Wherein didst thou put ME to the test?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Knowest thou it not, O Zarathustra? I SEEK ZARATHUSTRA.” + </p> + <p> + —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: + </p> + <p> + “Well! Up thither leadeth the way, there is the cave of Zarathustra. In it + mayest thou seek him whom thou wouldst fain find. + </p> + <p> + And ask counsel of mine animals, mine eagle and my serpent: they shall + help thee to seek. My cave however is large. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra, comforted in his heart, and went laughing on his + way. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXVI. OUT OF SERVICE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + What! Hardly have I escaped from that magician, and must another + necromancer again run across my path,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Whoever thou art, thou traveller,” said he, “help a strayed one, a + seeker, an old man, who may here easily come to grief! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Thou sayest it,” answered the old man sorrowfully. “And I served that old + God until his last hour. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who saith: ‘Who is ungodlier than I, + that I may enjoy his teaching?’”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra, and penetrated with his glances the thoughts and + arrear-thoughts of the old pope. At last the latter began: + </p> + <p> + “He who most loved and possessed him hath now also lost him most—: + </p> + <p> + —Lo, I myself am surely the most godless of us at present? But who + could rejoice at that!”— + </p> + <p> + —“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; + </p> + <p> + —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?”— + </p> + <p> + The old pope however did not answer, but looked aside timidly, with a + painful and gloomy expression. + </p> + <p> + “Let him go,” said Zarathustra, after prolonged meditation, still looking + the old man straight in the eye. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.”— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!’” + </p> + <p> + —“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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth + shall I now feel better than with thee!”— + </p> + <p> + “Amen! So shall it be!” said Zarathustra, with great astonishment; “up + thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For that old God liveth no more: he is indeed dead.”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXVII. THE UGLIEST MAN. + </h2></div> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Read my riddle! Say, say! WHAT IS THE REVENGE + ON THE WITNESS? + </p> + <p> + I entice thee back; here is smooth ice! See to it, see to it, that thy + pride doth not here break its legs! + </p> + <p> + 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>I</i>!” + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + “I know thee well,” said he, with a brazen voice, “THOU ART THE MURDERER + OF GOD! Let me go. + </p> + <p> + Thou couldst not ENDURE him who beheld THEE,—who ever beheld thee + through and through, thou ugliest man. Thou tookest revenge on this + witness!” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —“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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To whom would I go but unto thee? Stay, sit down! Do not however look at + me! Honour thus—mine ugliness! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —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: + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —Who have also the largest, heaviest feet. Where <i>I</i> have gone, + the way is bad. I tread all paths to death and destruction. + </p> + <p> + But that thou passedst me by in silence, that thou blushedst—I saw + it well: thereby did I know thee as Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For that I am too RICH, rich in what is great, frightful, ugliest, most + unutterable! Thy shame, O Zarathustra, HONOURED me! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + Hath an immodest one ever been answered more courteously?—Thou, + however, O Zarathustra, passedst him by, and saidst: ‘Nay! Nay! Three + times Nay!’ + </p> + <p> + Thou warnedst against his error; thou warnedst—the first to do so—against + pity:—not every one, not none, but thyself and thy type. + </p> + <p> + 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!’ + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + Thou thyself, however,—warn thyself also against THY pity! For many + are on their way to thee, many suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning, + freezing ones— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His pity knew no modesty: he crept into my dirtiest corners. This most + prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one had to die. + </p> + <p> + He ever beheld ME: on such a witness I would have revenge—or not + live myself. + </p> + <p> + The God who beheld everything, AND ALSO MAN: that God had to die! Man + cannot ENDURE it that such a witness should live.” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra however got up, and prepared to go + on: for he felt frozen to the very bowels. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How poor indeed is man,” thought he in his heart, “how ugly, how wheezy, + how full of hidden shame! + </p> + <p> + They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how great must that self-love + be! How much contempt is opposed to it! + </p> + <p> + Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath despised himself,—a + great lover methinketh he is, and a great despiser. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + I love the great despisers. Man is something that hath to be surpassed.”— + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXVIII. THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What hath happened unto me?” he asked himself, “something warm and living + quickeneth me; it must be in the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + Already am I less alone; unconscious companions and brethren rove around + me; their warm breath toucheth my soul.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do I here seek?” answered he: “the same that thou seekest, thou + mischief-maker; that is to say, happiness upon earth. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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,— + </p> + <p> + —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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth, for the great, evil, + long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth! + </p> + <p> + Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty giving; + and the over-rich may be on their guard! + </p> + <p> + Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out of all-too-small necks:—of + such bottles at present one willingly breaketh the necks. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And why is it not with the rich?” asked Zarathustra temptingly, while he + kept back the kine which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + —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, + </p> + <p> + —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— + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + —Also what requireth a long time, a day’s-work and a mouth’s-work + for gentle idlers and sluggards. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + —“Well!” said Zarathustra, “thou shouldst also see MINE animals, + mine eagle and my serpent,—their like do not at present exist on + earth. + </p> + <p> + Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave: be to-night its guest. And + talk to mine animals of the happiness of animals,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + —“One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,” answered the voluntary + beggar. “Thou thyself art good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a + cow!” + </p> + <p> + “Away, away with thee! thou evil flatterer!” cried Zarathustra + mischievously, “why dost thou spoil me with such praise and + flattery-honey? + </p> + <p> + “Away, away from me!” cried he once more, and heaved his stick at the fond + beggar, who, however, ran nimbly away. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0077"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXIX. THE SHADOW. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is verily becoming too much for me; these mountains swarm; my kingdom + is no longer of THIS world; I require new mountains. + </p> + <p> + My shadow calleth me? What matter about my shadow! Let it run after me! I—run + away from it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What!” said he, “have not the most ludicrous things always happened to us + old anchorites and saints? + </p> + <p> + Verily, my folly hath grown big in the mountains! Now do I hear six old + fools’ legs rattling behind one another! + </p> + <p> + But doth Zarathustra need to be frightened by his shadow? Also, methinketh + that after all it hath longer legs than mine.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who art thou?” asked Zarathustra vehemently, “what doest thou here? And + why callest thou thyself my shadow? Thou art not pleasing unto me.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What? Must I ever be on the way? Whirled by every wind, unsettled, driven + about? O earth, thou hast become too round for me! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + With thee have I wandered about in the remotest, coldest worlds, like a + phantom that voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + ‘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>I</i> still—inclination? + </p> + <p> + Have <i>I</i>—still a goal? A haven towards which MY sail is set? + </p> + <p> + A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth WHITHER he saileth, knoweth what wind + is good, and a fair wind for him. + </p> + <p> + What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an unstable will; + fluttering wings; a broken backbone. + </p> + <p> + This seeking for MY home: O Zarathustra, dost thou know that this seeking + hath been MY home-sickening; it eateth me up. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra’s countenance lengthened at his + words. “Thou art my shadow!” said he at last sadly. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas, how wilt thou forego and forget that loss? + Thereby—hast thou also lost thy way! + </p> + <p> + Thou poor rover and rambler, thou tired butterfly! wilt thou have a rest + and a home this evening? Then go up to my cave! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0078"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXX. NOONTIDE. + </h2></div> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Hush! Hath not the world now become perfect? What hath happened + unto me? + </p> + <p> + As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon parqueted seas, light, + feather-light, so—danceth sleep upon me. + </p> + <p> + No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul awake. Light is it, verily, + feather-light. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Take care! Hot noontide sleepeth on the fields. Do not sing! Hush! The + world is perfect. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —An old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine? Something + whisketh over it, its happiness laugheth. Thus—laugheth a God. Hush!— + </p> + <p> + —‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + —What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time flown away? Do I not fall? + Have I not fallen—hark! into the well of eternity? + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + Hush—” (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and felt that he was + asleep.) + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + (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!— + </p> + <p> + “Get up,” said Zarathustra, “thou little thief, thou sluggard! What! Still + stretching thyself, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells? + </p> + <p> + Who art thou then, O my soul!” (and here he became frightened, for a + sunbeam shot down from heaven upon his face.) + </p> + <p> + “O heaven above me,” said he sighing, and sat upright, “thou gazest at me? + Thou hearkenest unto my strange soul? + </p> + <p> + When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell down upon all earthly + things,—when wilt thou drink this strange soul— + </p> + <p> + —When, thou well of eternity! thou joyous, awful, noontide abyss! + when wilt thou drink my soul back into thee?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0079"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXI. THE GREETING. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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—: + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—: + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which groweth up like thee—tall, + silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood, stately,— + </p> + <p> + —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; + </p> + <p> + —Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh! who should not + ascend high mountains to behold such growths? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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, + </p> + <p> + —All who do not want to live unless they learn again to HOPE—unless + they learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the GREAT hope!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + (“‘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! + </p> + <p> + But he meaneth ‘blunt language and bluntly’—well! That is not the + worst taste in these days!”) + </p> + <p> + “Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men,” continued Zarathustra; “but + for me—ye are neither high enough, nor strong enough. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —NOT the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety, + and that which ye call the remnant of God; + </p> + <p> + —Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For OTHERS do I wait here in these + mountains, and will not lift my foot from thence without them; + </p> + <p> + —For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones, merrier ones, + for such as are built squarely in body and soul: LAUGHING LIONS must come! + </p> + <p> + O my guests, ye strange ones—have ye yet heard nothing of my + children? And that they are on the way to me? + </p> + <p> + Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy Isles, of my new beautiful + race—why do ye not speak unto me thereof? + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXII. THE SUPPER. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + One thing is more necessary than the other, so sayest thou thyself: well, + one thing is now more necessary UNTO ME than all others. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + (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.) + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + This proposal appealed to the hearts of all of them, save that the + voluntary beggar objected to the flesh and wine and spices. + </p> + <p> + “Just hear this glutton Zarathustra!” said he jokingly: “doth one go into + caves and high mountains to make such repasts? + </p> + <p> + Now indeed do I understand what he once taught us: Blessed be moderate + poverty!’ And why he wisheth to do away with beggars.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —Joyous in fight and feast, no sulker, no John o’ Dreams, ready for + the hardest task as for the feast, healthy and hale. + </p> + <p> + 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!”— + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + And verily, it is the strangest thing in a wise man, if over and above, he + be still sensible, and not an ass.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0081"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXIII. THE HIGHER MAN. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + Before God!—Now however this God hath died! Ye higher men, this God + was your greatest danger. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In that ye have despised, ye higher men, that maketh me hope. For the + great despisers are the great reverers. + </p> + <p> + In that ye have despaired, there is much to honour. For ye have not + learned to submit yourselves, ye have not learned petty policy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + These masters of to-day—surpass them, O my brethren—these + petty people: THEY are the Superman’s greatest danger! + </p> + <p> + 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”—! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 4. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He who seeth the abyss, but with eagle’s eyes,—he who with eagle’s + talons GRASPETH the abyss: he hath courage.— + </p> + <p> + 5. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Man must become better and eviler”—so do <i>I</i> teach. The + evilest is necessary for the Superman’s best. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 6. + </p> + <p> + Ye higher men, think ye that I am here to put right what ye have put + wrong? + </p> + <p> + Or that I wished henceforth to make snugger couches for you sufferers? Or + show you restless, miswandering, misclimbing ones, new and easier + footpaths? + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —Thus only groweth man aloft to the height where the lightning + striketh and shattereth him: high enough for the lightning! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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>I</i> have suffered.— + </p> + <p> + 7. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + My wisdom hath accumulated long like a cloud, it becometh stiller and + darker. So doeth all wisdom which shall one day bear LIGHTNINGS.— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 8. + </p> + <p> + Do not will anything beyond your power: there is a bad falseness in those + who will beyond their power. + </p> + <p> + Especially when they will great things! For they awaken distrust in great + things, these subtle false-coiners and stage-players:— + </p> + <p> + —Until at last they are false towards themselves, squint-eyed, + whited cankers, glossed over with strong words, parade virtues and + brilliant false deeds. + </p> + <p> + Take good care there, ye higher men! For nothing is more precious to me, + and rarer, than honesty. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 9. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What the populace once learned to believe without reasons, who could— + refute it to them by means of reasons? + </p> + <p> + And on the market-place one convinceth with gestures. But reasons make the + populace distrustful. + </p> + <p> + And when truth hath once triumphed there, then ask yourselves with good + distrust: “What strong error hath fought for it?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Such persons vaunt about not lying: but inability to lie is still far from + being love to truth. Be on your guard! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 10. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + When thou reachest thy goal, when thou alightest from thy horse: precisely + on thy HEIGHT, thou higher man,—then wilt thou stumble! + </p> + <p> + 11. + </p> + <p> + Ye creating ones, ye higher men! One is only pregnant with one’s own + child. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 12. + </p> + <p> + Ye creating ones, ye higher men! Whoever hath to give birth is sick; + whoever hath given birth, however, is unclean. + </p> + <p> + Ask women: one giveth birth, not because it giveth pleasure. The pain + maketh hens and poets cackle. + </p> + <p> + Ye creating ones, in you there is much uncleanliness. That is because ye + have had to be mothers. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 13. + </p> + <p> + Be not virtuous beyond your powers! And seek nothing from yourselves + opposed to probability! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + He hath founded for himself a penance-house and refuge-house: much good + may it do! But I do not believe in it. + </p> + <p> + In solitude there groweth what any one bringeth into it—also the + brute in one’s nature. Thus is solitude inadvisable unto many. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 14. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 15. + </p> + <p> + The higher its type, always the seldomer doth a thing succeed. Ye higher + men here, have ye not all—been failures? + </p> + <p> + Be of good cheer; what doth it matter? How much is still possible! Learn + to laugh at yourselves, as ye ought to laugh! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Man’s furthest, profoundest, star-highest issues, his prodigious powers—do + not all these foam through one another in your vessel? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And verily, how much hath already succeeded! How rich is this earth in + small, good, perfect things, in well-constituted things! + </p> + <p> + Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye higher men. Their golden + maturity healeth the heart. The perfect teacheth one to hope. + </p> + <p> + 16. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Did he himself find no cause for laughter on the earth? Then he sought + badly. A child even findeth cause for it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 17. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 18. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 19. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —Even the worst thing hath good dancing-legs: so learn, I pray you, + ye higher men, to put yourselves on your proper legs! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 20. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0082"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXIV. THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “O pure odours around me,” cried he, “O blessed stillness around me! But + where are mine animals? Hither, hither, mine eagle and my serpent! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + Hardly, however, had Zarathustra left the cave when the old magician got + up, looked cunningly about him, and said: “He is gone! + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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,’— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —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.— + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake the old magician, looked cunningly about him, and then seized + his harp. + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0083"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXV. SCIENCE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —Thou old melancholy devil, out of thy lament soundeth a lurement: + thou resemblest those who with their praise of chastity secretly invite to + voluptuousness!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—: + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —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, + </p> + <p> + —More horror, more danger, more earthquake. Ye long (it almost + seemeth so to me—forgive my presumption, ye higher men)— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + Such prolonged ancient fear, at last become subtle, spiritual and + intellectual—at present, me thinketh, it is called SCIENCE.”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The wildest and most courageous animals hath he envied and robbed of all + their virtues: thus only did he become—man. + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + And did I not myself warn you against it when I said that it was a + deceiver, a lying and deceiving spirit? + </p> + <p> + Especially when it showeth itself naked. But what can <i>I</i> do with + regard to its tricks! Have <i>I</i> created it and the world? + </p> + <p> + Well! Let us be good again, and of good cheer! And although Zarathustra + looketh with evil eye—just see him! he disliketh me—: + </p> + <p> + —Ere night cometh will he again learn to love and laud me; he cannot + live long without committing such follies. + </p> + <p> + HE—loveth his enemies: this art knoweth he better than any one I + have seen. But he taketh revenge for it—on his friends!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0084"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXVI. AMONG DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —The bad game of drifting clouds, of damp melancholy, of curtained + heavens, of stolen suns, of howling autumn-winds, + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + Thou hast nourished us with strong food for men, and powerful proverbs: do + not let the weakly, womanly spirits attack us anew at dessert! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + For with them was there equally good, clear, Oriental air; there was I + furthest from cloudy, damp, melancholy Old-Europe! + </p> + <p> + Then did I love such Oriental maidens and other blue kingdoms of heaven, + over which hang no clouds and no thoughts. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + Many-hued and foreign, forsooth! but without clouds: riddles which can be + guessed: to please such maidens I then composed an after-dinner psalm.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 2. THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE! + </p> +<div class='pre'> + —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! +</div> + <p> + THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE! <a id="link2H_4_0085"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXVII. THE AWAKENING. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. And again came the cries and laughter of the + higher men out of the cave: then began he anew: + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + New hopes are in their arms and legs, their hearts expand. They find new + words, soon will their spirits breathe wantonness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They empty their hearts, good times return unto them, they keep holiday + and ruminate,—they become THANKFUL. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + Amen! And glory and honour and wisdom and thanks and praise and strength + be to our God, from everlasting to everlasting! + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —The ass, however, here brayed YE-A. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0086"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXVIII. THE ASS-FESTIVAL. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + Every one would think you the worst blasphemers, or the very foolishest + old women, with your new belief! + </p> + <p> + And thou thyself, thou old pope, how is it in accordance with thee, to + adore an ass in such a manner as God?”— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!—” + </p> + <p> + —“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? + </p> + <p> + Worse verily, doest thou here than with thy bad brown girls, thou bad, new + believer!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + —“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? + </p> + <p> + It was a stupid thing that thou didst; how couldst thou, a shrewd man, do + such a stupid thing!” + </p> + <p> + “O Zarathustra,” answered the shrewd magician, “thou art right, it was a + stupid thing,—it was also repugnant to me.” + </p> + <p> + —“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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I dare not believe in God: certain it is however, that God seemeth + to me most worthy of belief in this form. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And he who hath too much spirit might well become infatuated with + stupidity and folly. Think of thyself, O Zarathustra! + </p> + <p> + Thou thyself—verily! even thou couldst well become an ass through + superabundance of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + Doth not the true sage willingly walk on the crookedest paths? The + evidence teacheth it, O Zarathustra,—THINE OWN evidence!” + </p> + <p> + —“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! + </p> + <p> + Thou seemest to me transformed, thine eyes glow, the mantle of the sublime + covereth thine ugliness: WHAT didst thou do? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Thou thyself seemest to me awakened: what didst thou do? why didst THOU + turn round? Why didst THOU get converted? Speak, thou nondescript!” + </p> + <p> + “O Zarathustra,” answered the ugliest man, “thou art a rogue! + </p> + <p> + Whether HE yet liveth, or again liveth, or is thoroughly dead—which + of us both knoweth that best? I ask thee. + </p> + <p> + One thing however do I know,—from thyself did I learn it once, O + Zarathustra: he who wanteth to kill most thoroughly, LAUGHETH. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!” + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “O ye wags, all of you, ye buffoons! Why do ye dissemble and disguise + yourselves before me! + </p> + <p> + How the hearts of all of you convulsed with delight and wickedness, + because ye had at last become again like little children—namely, + pious,— + </p> + <p> + —Because ye at last did again as children do—namely, prayed, + folded your hands and said ‘good God’! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.) + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + —A little valiant nonsense, some divine service and ass-festival, + some old joyful Zarathustra fool, some blusterer to blow your souls + bright. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0087"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXIX. THE DRUNKEN SONG. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + 1. + </div> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My friends, all of you,” said the ugliest man, “what think ye? For the + sake of this day—<i>I</i> am for the first time content to have + lived mine entire life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Was THAT—life?’ will I say unto death. ‘Well! Once more!’ + </p> + <p> + My friends, what think ye? Will ye not, like me, say unto death: ‘Was THAT—life? + For the sake of Zarathustra, well! Once more!’”— + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + —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!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + COME! COME! COME! LET US NOW WANDER! IT IS THE HOUR: LET US WANDER INTO + THE NIGHT! + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —As mysteriously, as frightfully, and as cordially as that midnight + clock-bell speaketh it to me, which hath experienced more than one man: + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + —Hearest thou not how it mysteriously, frightfully, and cordially + speaketh unto THEE, the old deep, deep midnight? + </p> + <p> + O MAN, TAKE HEED! 4. + </p> + <p> + Woe to me! Whither hath time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The + world sleepeth— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asketh and asketh and + asketh: “Who hath sufficient courage for it? + </p> + <p> + —Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: THUS shall + ye flow, ye great and small streams!” + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 5. + </p> + <p> + It carrieth me away, my soul danceth. Day’s-work! Day’s-work! Who is to be + master of the world? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ye good dancers, now is all delight over: wine hath become lees, every cup + hath become brittle, the sepulchres mutter. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why doth the + worm still burrow? There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 6. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre! Every pain hath torn thy heart, + father-pain, fathers’-pain, forefathers’-pain; thy speech hath become + ripe,— + </p> + <p> + —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, + </p> + <p> + —Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness. Ye higher men, do ye + not feel it? There welleth up mysteriously an odour, + </p> + <p> + —A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed, brown, + gold-wine-odour of old happiness, + </p> + <p> + —Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which singeth: the world is + deep, AND DEEPER THAN THE DAY COULD READ! + </p> + <p> + 7. + </p> + <p> + Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for thee. Touch me not! Hath + not my world just now become perfect? + </p> + <p> + My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me alone, thou dull, doltish, + stupid day! Is not the midnight brighter? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + O day, thou gropest for me? Thou feelest for my happiness? For thee am I + rich, lonesome, a treasure-pit, a gold chamber? + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happiness, after deeper + unhappiness, grasp after some God; grasp not after me: + </p> + <p> + —Mine unhappiness, my happiness is deep, thou strange day, but yet + am I no God, no God’s-hell: DEEP IS ITS WOE. + </p> + <p> + 8. + </p> + <p> + God’s woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God’s woe, not at me! + What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + Gone! Gone! O youth! O noontide! O afternoon! Now have come evening and + night and midnight,—the dog howleth, the wind: + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + How she just now speaketh soberly, this drunken poetess! hath she perhaps + overdrunk her drunkenness? hath she become overawake? doth she ruminate? + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 9. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Woe saith: “Hence! Go! Away, thou woe!” But everything that suffereth + wanteth to live, that it may become mature and lively and longing, + </p> + <p> + —Longing for the further, the higher, the brighter. “I want heirs,” + so saith everything that suffereth, “I want children, I do not want + MYSELF,”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 10. + </p> + <p> + Ye higher men, what think ye? Am I a soothsayer? Or a dreamer? Or a + drunkard? Or a dream-reader? Or a midnight-bell? + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + —Wanted ye ever once to come twice; said ye ever: “Thou pleasest me, + happiness! Instant! Moment!” then wanted ye ALL to come back again! + </p> + <p> + —All anew, all eternal, all enlinked, enlaced and enamoured, Oh, + then did ye LOVE the world,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 11. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + —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,— + </p> + <p> + —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,— + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —Joys want the eternity of ALL things, they WANT DEEP, PROFOUND + ETERNITY! + </p> + <p> + 12. + </p> + <p> + Have ye now learned my song? Have ye divined what it would say? Well! + Cheer up! Ye higher men, sing now my roundelay! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> +<div class='pre'> + 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!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0088"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + LXXX. THE SIGN. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Well! they still sleep, these higher men, whilst <i>I</i> am awake: THEY + are not my proper companions! Not for them do I wait here in my mountains. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But still do I lack my proper men!”— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + O ye higher men, YOUR distress was it that the old soothsayer foretold to + me yester-morn,— + </p> + <p> + —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.’ + </p> + <p> + To my last sin?” cried Zarathustra, and laughed angrily at his own words: + “WHAT hath been reserved for me as my last sin?” + </p> + <p> + —And once more Zarathustra became absorbed in himself, and sat down + again on the big stone and meditated. Suddenly he sprang up,— + </p> + <p> + “FELLOW-SUFFERING! FELLOW-SUFFERING WITH THE HIGHER MEN!” he cried out, + and his countenance changed into brass. “Well! THAT—hath had its + time! + </p> + <p> + My suffering and my fellow-suffering—what matter about them! Do I + then strive after HAPPINESS? I strive after my WORK! + </p> + <p> + Well! The lion hath come, my children are nigh, Zarathustra hath grown + ripe, mine hour hath come:— + </p> + <p> + This is MY morning, MY day beginneth: ARISE NOW, ARISE, THOU GREAT + NOONTIDE!”— + </p> + <p> + Thus spake Zarathustra and left his cave, glowing and strong, like a + morning sun coming out of gloomy mountains. + </p> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> <a id="link2H_APPE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + APPENDIX. + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + NOTES ON “THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA” BY ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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”. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + (A.) Nietzsche and Morality. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Concepts of good and evil are therefore, in their origin, merely a means + to an end, they are expedients for acquiring power. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + (B.) The Master- and Slave-Morality Compared. + </p> + <p> + The first morality is active, creative, Dionysian. The second is passive, + defensive,—to it belongs the “struggle for existence.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + (C.) Nietzsche and Evolution. + </p> + <p> + 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). + </p> + <p> + (D.) Nietzsche and Sociology. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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”. + </p> + <p> + ... <a id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + PART I. THE PROLOGUE. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ... THE DISCOURSES. <a id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter I. The Three Metamorphoses. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter II. The Academic Chairs of Virtue. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter IV. The Despisers of the Body. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter IX. The Preachers of Death. + </h2></div> + <p> + This is an analysis of the psychology of all those who have the “evil eye” + and are pessimists by virtue of their constitutions. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XV. The Thousand and One Goals. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XVIII. Old and Young Women. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.) + </p> + <p> + 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”). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXI. Voluntary Death. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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”). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXII. The Bestowing Virtue. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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). + </p> + <p> + ... <a id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + PART II. + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXIII. The Child with the Mirror. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXIV. In the Happy Isles. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXIX. The Tarantulas. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXX. The Famous Wise Ones. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXXIII. The Grave-Song. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXXIV. Self-Surpassing. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXXV. The Sublime Ones. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXXVI. The Land of Culture. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXXVII. Immaculate Perception. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXXVIII. Scholars. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XXXIX. Poets. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XL. Great Events. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLI. The Soothsayer. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLII. Redemption. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLIII. Manly Prudence. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLIV. The Stillest Hour. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ... <a id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + PART III. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLVI. The Vision and the Enigma. + </h2></div> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLVII. Involuntary Bliss. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLVIII. Before Sunrise. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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”). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter XLIX. The Bedwarfing Virtue. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LI. On Passing-by. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LII. The Apostates. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LIII. The Return Home. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LIV. The Three Evil Things. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.) + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LV. The Spirit of Gravity. + </h2></div> + <p> + (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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LVI. Old and New Tables. Par. 2. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Pars. 3 and 4. + </p> + <p> + 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.’” + </p> + <p> + Par. 5. + </p> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + Par. 6. + </p> + <p> + This refers, of course, to the reception pioneers of Nietzsche’s stamp + meet with at the hands of their contemporaries. + </p> + <p> + Par. 8. + </p> + <p> + 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’?” + </p> + <p> + Par. 9. + </p> + <p> + This is complementary to the first three verses of par. 2. + </p> + <p> + Par. 10. + </p> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + Pars. 11, 12. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The last two verses of par. 12 were discussed in the Notes on Chapters + XXXVI. and LIII. + </p> + <p> + Par. 13. + </p> + <p> + This, like the first part of “The Soothsayer”, is obviously a reference to + the Schopenhauerian Pessimism. + </p> + <p> + Pars. 14, 15, 16, 17. + </p> + <p> + These are supplementary to the discourse “Backworld’s-men”. + </p> + <p> + Par. 18. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Par. 20. + </p> + <p> + “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). + </p> + <p> + Par. 21. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Par. 24. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Pars. 26, 27. + </p> + <p> + See Note on “The Prologue”. + </p> + <p> + Par. 28. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LVII. The Convalescent. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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”. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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”). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LX. The Seven Seals. + </h2></div> + <p> + This is a final paean which Zarathustra sings to Eternity and the + marriage-ring of rings, the ring of the Eternal Recurrence. + </p> + <p> + ... <a id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + PART IV. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXI. The Honey Sacrifice. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXII. The Cry of Distress. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXIII. Talk with the Kings. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXIV. The Leech. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXV. The Magician. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXVI. Out of Service. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXVII. The Ugliest Man. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXVIII. The Voluntary Beggar. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXIX. The Shadow. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXX. Noontide. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.). + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXI. The Greeting. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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”:— + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay! Nay! Three times nay! Always more, always better ones of your type + shall succumb—for ye shall always have it worse and harder.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXII. The Supper. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXIII. The Higher Man. Par. 1. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Par. 3. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Par. 4. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Pars. 5, 6. + </p> + <p> + These have already been referred to in the Notes on Chapters LVII. (end) + and LXXI. + </p> + <p> + Par. 7. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Par. 9. + </p> + <p> + 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”). + </p> + <p> + Pars. 10, 11. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Par. 13. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Par. 15. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Pars. 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXIV. The Song of Melancholy. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXV. Science. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXVI. Among the Daughters of the Desert. + </h2></div> + <div class='ph3'> + This tells its own tale. + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXVII. The Awakening. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXVIII. The Ass-Festival. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXIX. The Drunken Song. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Chapter LXXX. The Sign. + </h2></div> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + ... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI. + </p> + <p> + London, February 1909. + </p> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 1998-h.htm or 1998-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/9/1998/</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. 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