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<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Thus Spake Zarathustra, by Friedrich Nietzsche</div>
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<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">
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br><br><br><br>
    </div>
    <div class='chapter'><h2>
      THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA.
    </h2></div>
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      <a id="link2H_4_0003">
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    <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">
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    <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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </div>
    <div class='chapter'><h2>
      ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES.
    </h2></div>
    <p>
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    <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>
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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      <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <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">
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    </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">
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    </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">
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    </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">
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    </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>
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    </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">
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    </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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    <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>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </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>
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    </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>
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      <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>
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    </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">
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    </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">
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    </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">
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    </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">
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    </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">
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    </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>
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      <br><br><br><br>
    </div>
    <div class='chapter'><h2>
      APPENDIX.
    </h2></div>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_NOTE">
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    <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>
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    <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>
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      <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>
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      <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>
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      <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>
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      <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>
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      <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>
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      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>
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      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>
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      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>
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      PART II.
    </h2></div>
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      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>
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      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>
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      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.).
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      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.
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      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>
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      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.
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      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>
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      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.
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      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>
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      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.
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      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>
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      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>
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      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.
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      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>
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      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>
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      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.
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      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.
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      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>
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      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>
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      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>
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      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>
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    <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>
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      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>
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    <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>
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      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>
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      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>
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      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>
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      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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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      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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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    <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>
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      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>
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    <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>

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