Serco Tin 4931109 S,13VHOIN “LS 40 ALISH3AINN Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2006 with funding from Microsoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/thusspokezarathuO0Onietuoft THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA THUS SPAKE ZLARATHUSTRA By FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE Translated by Thomas Common ae) THE MODERN LIBRARY: NEW YORE THE MODERN LIBRARY is published by RanpoM Houss, INC. Manufactured in the United States of America by H. Wolff CONTENTS INTRODUCTION BY MRS. FORSTER-NIETZSCHE THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA ZARATHUSTRA’'S PROLOGUE FIRST PART CHAPTER Te . The Academic Chairs of Virtue . Backworldsmen . The Despisers of the Body . Joys and Passions by NN HH ew A HM AH eH HR A A Nb H ONO ON AU SW ND O00 MY ANDY WN The Three Metamorphoses The Pale Criminal . Reading and Writing The Tree on the Hill . The Preachers of Death . War and Warriors . The New Idol . The Flies tn the Market-Place . Chastity . The Friend . The Thousand and One Goals . Netghbour-Love . The Way of the Creating One . Old and Young Women . The Bite of the Adder . Child and Marriage . Voluntary Death . The Bestowing Virtue Vv .7AGE 1X 23 25 28 32 34) 39 AI 44 47 49 52 57 60 63 68 70 72 73 vi CONTENTS SECOND PART ¢ HAPTER 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 20. 30. BE. 22. 33: 34- 35: 36. Dey 38. 39. 40. Al. Ae 43- 44. The Child with the Mirror In the Happy Isles The Pitiful The Priests The Virtuous The Rabble The Tarantulas The Famous Wise Ones The Night Song The Dance Song The Grave Song Self-Surpassing The Sublime Ones The Land of Culture Immaculate Perception Scholars Poets Great Events The Soothsayer Redemption Manly Prudence The Stillest Hour THIRD PART . The Wanderer . The Vision and the Enigma . Invotuntary Bliss . Before Sunrise . The Bedwarfing Virtue . On the Olive-Mount FAGE 8) 90 93 96 2h: 103 106 110 113 116 119 122 126 129 132 135 138 142 146 150 156 159 167 veght 177 I8I 184 I9I CONTENTS CHAPTER . On Passing-by . The Apostates . The Return Home . The Three Evil Things . The Spirit of Gravity . Old and New Tables . The Convalescent . The Great Longing . The Second Dance Song . The Seven Seals FOURTH AND LAST PART . The Honey Sacrifice . The Cry of Distress . Talk with the Kings ~ he Leech . The Magician . Out of Service . The Ugliest Man . The Voluntary Beggar . The Shadow . Noontide . The Greeting . The Supper . The Higher Man . Lhe Song of Melancholy . Science . Among Daughters of the Desert . The Awakening . The Ass-Festival . The Drunken Song . The Sign Vii 194 198 203 207 214 218 24% 248 252 256 263 267 271 ZaKE, 280 288 293 298 393 507 311 317 319 332 338 341 348 352 356 365 INTRODUCTION By Mrs. FOrRSTER-NIETZSCHE HOW ZARATHUSTRA CAME INTO BEING “ZARATHUSTRA is my brother’s most personal work; it is the history of his most individual experiences, of his friendships, ideals, raptures, bitterest disappointments and sorrows. Above it all, however, there soars, transfiguring it, the image of his greatest hopes and remotest aims. My brother had the figure of Zarathustra in his mind from his very earliest youth: he once told me that even as a child he had dreamt of him. At different periods 1n 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 honor 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 thou- sand years.” All Zarathustra’s views, as also his personality, were early conceptions of my brother’s mind. Whoever reads his post- humously 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 Super- man is put forth quite clearly in all his writings during the years 1873-75; and in “We Philologists,” the following re- markable observations occur:— “How can one praise and glorify a nation as a whole?—. ix DO xX INTRODUCTION Even among the Greeks, it was the individuals that counted. “The Greeks are interesting and extremely important be- cause they reared such a vast number of great individuals. How was this possible? The question is one which ought to be studied. “I am interested only in the relations of a people to the rearing of the individual man, and among the Greeks the conditions were unusually favorable for the development of cne individual; not by any means owing to the goodness of the people, but because of the struggles of their evil instincts. “With the help of favorable 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 excep- tional men.” The notion of rearing the Superman is only a new form of an ideal Nietzsche already had in his youth, that ‘the object of mankind should lie in its highest individuals’ (or, as he writes in “Schopenhauer as Educator’: ‘Mankind ought con- stantly to be striving to produce great men—this and nothing else is its duty.” ). But the ideals he most revered in those days are no longer held to be the highest types of men. No, around this future ideal of a coming humanity—the Superman—the poet spread the veil of becoming. Who can tell to what glorious heights man can still ascend? That is why, after having tested the worth of our noblest ideal—that of the Saviour, in the light of the new valuations, the poet cries with passionate emphasis in ‘“Zarathustra’’: “Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, the greatest and the smallest inan:— “All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily even the greatest found I—all-too-human!”’— hy ; a j rt 2: ’ INTRODUCTION xX! The phrase “the rearing of the Superman,” has very often heen misunderstood. By the word ‘“‘rearing,’’ in this case, 1s 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, x rong, proud, a power, Ta Tact all Me Gualiies resulting < om strenoettr, atid ata to) equence, a oerces whic tend > 0 promote or Jens ife have been seriously undermined ( Now, bowever, 2 new tabl e of val fuations | must be placed over 7 mankind —ramely that se Strong, “and “Mmagnih- C 7 ith ‘overpowering ae sion as the aim of our life, hope, and will. And just as the old” system ¢ of valuing, which on only extolled’ thet Walities favorable “A fo the weak, the e suffering, a and the oppressed, has succeedéd in producing a weak, k, suffering, and “modern” rn _race, so this new Sith dnd Teversed ‘system ¢ of ‘Valuing ought t to rear a ear a healthy, sti strong, lively, and courageous type, which would 3 pe a glory to life Ps ey itself. Stated brchy, the lead ag pt Finciple“of-this-rrew systers of Valuing.y would be: ‘ “All ‘th rat. DLO ceeds, “Teen om power is | good, all that springs from. weakness is bad,” a is type must not be regarded as a fanciful figure: it 1s not a nebulous hope which is to be realized 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 tc be a possibility which men of the present ret INTRODUCTION could realize with all their spiritual and physical energies, pro- vided they adopted the new values. The author of “Zarathustra” never lost sight of that egre- gious example of a transvaluation of all values through Chris- tianity,..whereby the whole of the deified mode of, life. anc thought of the Greeks, as well? as i$ strong | 2 Romedom, was almost GREP 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 pro- vided ) effect another such revolution within a calculable period of time, until that glorious type of manhood shall finally ap- pear which is to be our new faith and hope, and in the creation of which Zarathustra exhorts us to participate? In his private notes on the subject the author uses the ex- pression “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 “Ecce 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 Joyful Wisdom.’ :— “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. 1 know not how to express my meaning more plainly or more per- sonally than I have done‘already in one of the iast chapters (Aphorism 382) of the fifth book of ‘“The Joyful Wisdom’’: “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 iungeth ta wowsticn. “Ray INTRODUCTION Xit experience the whole range of hitherto recognized 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 te be a conqueror, and discoverer of the ideal—as likewise how it 1s 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 Argo- nauts of the ideal, more courageous perhaps than prudent, and often enough shipwrécked and brought to grief, nevertheless dangerously healthy, always healthy again—it would seem as if, in recompense for it all, that we have a still undiscovered country before us, the boundaries of which no one has yet seen, a beyond to all countries and corners of the ideal known hitherto, a world so over-rich in the beautiful, the strange, the questionable, the frightful, and the divine, that our curiosity as well as our thirst for possession thereof, have got out of hand—alas! that nothing will now any longer satisfy us!— “How could we still be content with the man of the present day after such outlooks, and with such a craving in our conscience and conscious- ness? 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 acknowl- edge 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-forgetful- ness; 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 bear- ing, word, tone, look, morality, and pursuit, as their truest involuntary parody—and with which, nevertheless, perhaps the great seriousness only XIV INTRODUCTION commences, when the proper interrogative mark is set up, the fate of the soul changes, the hour-hand moves, and tragedy begins. . . .” Although the figure of Zarathustra and a large number of the leading thoughts in this work had appeared much earlier in the dreams and writings of the author, “Thus Spake Zara- thustra’’ did not actually come into being until the month of August, 1881, in Sils-Maria; and it was the idea of the Eternal Recurrence of all things which finally induced my brother to set forth his new views in poetic language. In regard to his first conception of this idea, his autobiographical sketch, “Ecce, Homo,” written in the autumn of 1888, contains the following passage :— “The fundamental idea of my work—namely, the Eternal Recurrence of all things—this highest of | of all Possible f formule of ‘4a Yea-saying “philosophy, first occurred to me in August, 1881. J 881. I made a note of the thought on a 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 tts 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 Maéstro, 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 haa done theretofore.” INTRODUCTION Xv During the month of August, 1881, my brother resolved ta 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 1s written the first definite plan of ‘“Thus Spake Zarathustra’ :— ““MIDDAY AND ETERNITY.” “GUIDE-Posts TO A NEw Way OF LIVING.’ Beneath this is written:— “Zarathustra born on lake Urmi; left his home in his thirtieth year, Went into the province of Aria, and, during ten years of solitude in the mountains, composed the Zend-Avesta.” “The sun of knowledge stands once more at midday; and the serpent of eternity lies coiled in its light : It is your time, ye midday brethren.” In that summer of 1881, my brother, after many years of steadily declining health, began at last to rally, and it is to this first gush of the recovery of his once splendid bodily condition that we owe not only ‘“The Joyful Wisdom,” which in its mood may be regarded as a prelude to “Zarathustra,” but also ‘‘Zara- thustra’’ 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, in- asmuch as he regarded friendship as such a sacred institution; and for the first time in his life he realized the whole horror of that loneliness to which, perhaps, all greatness is con- demned. 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 under- stand 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 Xvi INTRODUCTION earliest youth onwards. Now, however, that the way he had chosen grew ever more perilous and steep, he found nobody who could follow him: he therefore created a perfect friend for himself in the ideal form of a majestic philosopher, and made this creation the preacher of his gospel to the world. Whether my brother would ever have written “Thus Spake Zarathustra” according to the first plan sketched in the sum- mer of 1881, if he had not had the disappointments already referred to, is now an idle question; but perhaps where ‘‘Zara- thustra’” is concerned, we may also say with Master Eckhardt: ‘The fleetest beast to bear you to perfection is suffering.” My brother writes as follows about the origin of the first part of ‘‘Zarathustra”:—‘‘In the winter of 1882-83, I was living on the charming little Gulf of Rapallo, not far from Genoa, and between Chiavari and Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good; the winter was cold and exceptionally rainy; and the small inn in which I lived was so close to the water that at night my sleep would be disturbed if the sea were high. These circumstances were surely the very reverse of favorable; 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 un- favorable 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 after- noon, 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 deariy ioved by the Emperor Frederick ITI. In the autumn of 1886 I chanced to be there again when he was cevisiting this small, forgotten world of happiness for the last time. It was on INTRODUCTION XVII these two roads that all ‘Zarathustra’ came to me, above all Zarathustra himself as a type;—I ought rather to say that it was on these walks that these ideas waylaid me.” The first part of ‘Zarathustra’ was written in about ten days—that is to say, from the beginning to about the middle of February, 1883. ‘“The last lines were written precisely in the hallowed hour when Richard Wagner gave up the ghost in Venice.” With the exception of the ten days occupied in composing the first part of this book, my brother often referred to this winter as the hardest and sickliest he had ever experienced. He did not, however, mean thereby that his former disorders were troubling him, but that he was suffering from a severe attack of influenza which he had caught in Santa Margherita, and which tormented him for several weeks after his arrival in Genoa. As a matter of fact, however, what he complained of most was his spiritual condition—that indescribable forsaken- ness—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 feeble- ness 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 fol- lowing 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 ta XVIL1 INTRODUCTION the poet-author of ‘Zarathustra,’ and for the choice 9f which I was not responsible, made me inordinately miserable. I tried te ieave it. I wanted to go to Aquila—the opposite of Rome in every respect, and actually founded in a spirit of enmity to- wards 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 im- mortality.’ ” We remained somewhat too long in Rome that spring, and what with the effect of the increasing heat and the discour- aging circumstances already described, my brother resolved not to write any mote, or in any case, not to proceed with “Zara- thustra,” although I offered to relieve him of all trouble in connection with the proofs and the publisher. W/hen, how- ever, 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 INTRODUCTION XIX be sapped from me by the climate of Italy. Now and again I am troubled by the thought: what next? My ‘future’ is the darkest thing in the world to me, but as there still remains a great deal for me to do, I suppose I ought rather to think of doing this than of my future, and leave the rest to thee and the gods.” The second part of ‘Zarathustra’ was written between the 26th of June and the 6th July. “This summer, finding myself once more in the sacred place where the first thought of ‘Zarathustra’ flashed across my mind, I conceived the second part. Ten days sufficed. Neither for the second, the first, nor the third part, have I required a day longer.” He often used to speak of the ecstatic mood in which he wrote ‘‘Zarathustra’’; how in his walks over hill and dale the ideas would crowd into his mind, and how he would note them down hastily in a notebook from which he would tran- scribe 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 incom- parable mood in which he created Zarathustra:— ‘Has any one at the end of the nineteenth century any distinct notion of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration? If not, I will describe it. If one had the smallest vestige of superstition in one, it would hardly be possible to set aside completely the idea that one 1s the mere incarnation, mouthpiece or medium of an almighty power. The idea of revelation in the sense that something becomes sud- denly visible and audible with indescribable certainty and accuracy, which profoundly convulses and upsets one—de- scribes simply the matter of fact. One hears—one does not seek; one takes—one does not ask who gives: a thought sud- xx INTRODUCTION denly flashes up like lightning, it comes with necessity, un- hesitatingly—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 conscious- ness of an endless number of fine thrills and quiverings to the very toes;—there is a depth of happiness in which the pain- fullest and gloomiest do not operate as antitheses, but as con- ditioned, 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 involun- tarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of freedom, of absolute-: ness, of power and divinity. The involuntariness of the figures and similes is the most remarkable thing; one loses all percep- tion 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 lave to go back thousands of years in order to find some one who could say to me: It is mine also!—” In the autumn of 1883 my brother left the Engadine for INTRODUCTION xxi 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 hailowed 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 won- derful 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.’ ] might often have been seen dancing in those days. Without a suggestion of fatigue I could then walk for seven or eight hours on end among the hills. I slept well and laughed well —I was perfectly robust and patient.” As we have seen, each of the three parts of “Zarathustra” was written, after a more or less short period of preparation in about ten days. The composition of the fourth part alone was broken by occasional interruptions. The first notes relating to this part were written while he and I were staying together in Zurich in September 1884. In the following November, while staying at Mentone, he began to elaborate these notes, and after a long pause, finished the manuscript at Nice be- tween the end of January and the middle of February 1885. My’ brother then called this part the fourth and last; but even be- fore, 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 XXL INTRODUCTION 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 pre- sented a copy of it, he pledged to the strictest secrecy concern- ing 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 accord- ing to this resolution. Already at the beginning of this history I hinted at the rea- sons 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 Im- moralist; 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 struggic between good and evi! the essential wheel in the working of things. The translation of morality 1 into, the metaphysical, as force, cause, énd in ‘itself, was ‘is work. But the very question suggests its own answer. Zarathustra created thé most st porten- tous etror, 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 INTRODUCTION XXIlt that Zarathustra was more truthful than any other thinker. In his teaching alone do we meet ) with truthfulness upheld as the highest vittue—/.e.: the reverse of the cowardice of the ideal ist’ who fleés from reality. Zarathustra had more courage in his body than any other thinker before or after him. To tell the truth and to am straight: that 1s the first Persian virtue. Am I understood? . . . ‘che overcoming of morality through itself | —through truthfulness, the overcoming of the moralist through his opposite—through me—: that is what the name 4 Zarathustra means in my mouth.” ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHB NIETZSCHE ARCHIVES, WEIMAR, December 1905. WHUS SPAKE 7ZARATHUSTR& Only, one must be rich enough to do so. I do not like your cold justice; out of the eye of your judges 72 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA there always glanceth the executioner and his cold steel. Tell me: where find we justice, which is love with seeing eyes? Devise me, then, the love which not only beareth all punish- ment, but also all guilt! Devise me, then, the justice which acquitteth every one except the judge! And would ye hear this likewise? To him who seeketh to be just from the heart, even the lie becometh philanthropy. But how could I be just from the heart! How can I give every one his own! Let this be enough for me: I give unto every one mine own. tinally, my brethren, guard against doing wrong to any anchorite. How could an anchorite forget! How could he requite! Like a deep well is an anchorite. Easy 1s it to throw in a stone: if it should sink to the bottom, however, tell me, who will bring tt out again? Guard against injuring the anchorite! if ye have done so, however, well then, kill him also!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 20. Child and Marriage I HAVE a question for thee alone, my brother: like a sounding- lead, cast I this question into thy soul, that I may know its depth. Thou art young, and desirest child and marriage. But I ask thee: Art thou a man entitled to desire a child? . CHILD AND MARRIAGE 73 Art thou the victorious one, the self-conqueror, the ruler of thy passions, the master of thy virtues? Thus do I ask thee. Or doth the animal speak in thy wish, and necessity? Or iso- lation? Or discord in thee? I would have thy victory and freedom long for a child. Living monuments shalt thou build to thy victory and emanci- pation. Beyond thyself shalt thou build. But first of all must thou be built thyself, rectangular in body and soul. Not only onward shalt thou propagate thyself, but upward! For that purpose may the garden of marriage help thee! A higher body shalt thou create, a first movement, a spon- taneously rolling wheel—a creating one shalt thou create. Marriage: so call I the will of the twain to create the one that is more than those who created it. The reverence for one an- other, as those exercising such a will, call I marriage. Let this be the significance and the truth of thy marriage. But that which the many-too-many call marriage, those super- fluous ones—ah, what shall I call it? Ah, the poverty of soul in the twain! Ah,.the filth of soul in the twain! Ah, the pitiable self-complacency in the twain! | Marriage they call it all; and they say their marriages are made in heaven. Well, I do not like it, that heaven of the superfluous! No, I do not like them, those animals tangled in the heavenly toils! Far from me also be the God who limpeth thither to bless what he hath not matched! Laugh not at such marriages! What oe hath not had reason to weep over its parents? Worthy did this man seem, and ripe for the meaning of the earth: but when I saw his wife, th~ arth ae to mea home for madcaps. 3 si 74 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Yea. 1 would that the earth shook with convulsions when a saint ana a goose mate with one another. This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero, and at last got for himself a small decked-up lie: his marriage he calleth it. That one was reserved in intercourse and chose choicely. But one time he spoilt his company for all time: his marriage he calleth it. Another sought a handmaid with the virtues of an angel. But all at once he became the handmaid of a woman, and now would he need also to become an angel. Careful, have I found all buyers, and all of them have astute eyes. But even the astutest of them buyeth his wife in a sack. Many short follies—that is called love by you. And your marriage putteth an end to many short follies, with one long stupidity. Your love to woman, and woman’s love to man—ah, would that it were sympathy for suffering and veiled deities! But generally two animals alight on one another. But even your best love is only an enraptured simile and a painful ardour. It is a torch to light you to loftier paths. Beyond yourselves shall ye love some day! Then /earn first of all to love. And on that account ye had to drink the bitter cup of your love. Bitterness is in the cup even of the best love; thus doth it cause longing for the Superman; thus doth it cause thirst in thee, the creating one! Thirst in the creating one, arrow and longing for the Supe! man: tell me, my brother, is this thy will to marriage? Holy call I such a will, and such a marriage.— Thus spake Zarathustra. VOLUNTARY DEATH 75 21. Voluntary Death Many die too late, and some die too early. Yet strange soundeth the precept: “Die at the right time!” Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra. To be sure, he who never liveth at the right time, how could he ever die at the right time? Would that le might never be born!—Thus do I advise the superfluous ones. But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even the hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked. Every one regardeth dying as a great rnatter: but as yet death is not a festival. Not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals. The consummating death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and promise to the living. His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, sur- rounded by hoping and promising ones. Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no festival at which such a dying one doth not consecrate the oaths of the living! Thus to die is best; tlie next best, however, is to die in battle, and sacrifice a great soul. | But to the fighter equally hateful as to the victor, 1s your grinning death which stealeth nigh like a thief,—and yet cometh as master. My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary death, which cometh unto me because I want it. And when shall I want it?—He that hath a goal and an heir, wanteth death at the right time for the goal and the heir. 76 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no more withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life. Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever backward. Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless mouth hath no longer the right to every truth. And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult art of—going at the right time. One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is known by those who want to be long loved. Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last day of autumn: and at the same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled. In some ageth the heart first, and in others the spirit. And some are hoary in youth, but the late young keep long young. To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm gnaweth at their heart. Then let them see to it that their dying is all the more a success. Many never become sweet; they rot even in the summer. It 1s cowardice that holdeth them fast to their branches. Far toc many live, and far too long hang they on their branches. Would that a storm came and shook all this rotten- ness and worm-eatenness from the tree! Would that there came preachers of speedy death! Those would be the appropriate storms and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only slow death preached, and patience with all that is ‘“‘earthly.”’ Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that hath too much patience with you, ye blasphemers! Ce ee eee eer VOLUNTARY DEATIL «> 7] 4 Verily, too early died that Hebrew. whom the preachers of slow death honour: and to many hath it proved a calamity that he died too early. | As yet had he known only tears, and the melancholy of the Hebrews, together with the hatred of the good and just —the Hebrew Jesus: then was he seized with the longing for death. Had he but remained in the wilderness, and far from the good and just! Then, perhaps, would he have learned to live, and love the earth—and laughter also! Believe it, my brethren! He died too early; he himself would have disavowed his doctrine had he attained to my age! Noble enough was he to disavow! But he was still immature. Immaturely loveth the youth, and immaturely also hateth he man and earth. Confined and awk- ward are still his soul and the wings of his spirit. But in man there is more of the child than in the youth, and less of melancholy: better understandeth he about life and death. Free for death, and free in death; a holy Naysayer, when there is no longer time for Yea: thus understandeth he about death and life. That your dying may not be a reproach to man and the earth, my friends: that do I solicit from the honey of your soul. In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still shine like an evening after-glow around the earth: otherwise your dying hath been unsatisfactory. Thus will I die myself, that ye friends may love the earth more for my sake; and earth will I again become, to have rest in her that bore me. 78 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw his ball. Now be ye friends the heirs of my goal; to you throw I the golden ball. Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the golden ball! And so tarry I still a little while on the earth—pardon me for it! Thus spake Zarathustra. 22. The Bestounng Virtue if 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 cross- roads. Then Zarathustra told them that he now wanted to go alone; for he was fond of going alone. His disciples, however, presented him at his departure with a staff, on the golden handle of which a serpent twined round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on account of the staff, and supported himself thereon; then spake he thus to his disciples: Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always bestoweth itself. Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to the highest value. Goldlike, beameth the glance of the bestower. Gold- lustre maketh peace between moon and sun. Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprcfiting, beaming is it, and soft of lustre: a bestowing virtue is the highest virtue. THE BESTOWING VIRTUE 79 Verily, I divine you well, my disciples: ye strive like me for the bestowing virtue. What should ye have in common with cats and wolves? It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts yourselves: and therefore have ye the thirst to accumulate ail riches in your soul. Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels, be- cause your virtue 1s insatiable in desiring to bestow. Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and into you, so that they shall flow back again out of your fountain as the gifts of your love. Verily, an appropriator of all values must such bestowing love become; but healthy and holy, call I this selfishness.— Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and hungry kind, which would always steal—the selfishness of the sick, the sickly selfishness. With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that is lustrous; with the craving of hunger it measureth him who hath abun- dance; and ever doth it prowl round the tables of bestowers. Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible degenera- tion; of a sickly body, speaketh the larcenous craving of this selfishness. Tell me, my brother, what do we think bad, and worst of all? Is it not degeneration?—And we always suspect degenera- tion when the bestowing soul is lacking. Upward goeth our course from genera on to super-genera. But a horror to us is the degenerating sense, which saith: “All for myself.”’ Upward soareth our sense: thus is it a simile of our body, a simile of an elevation. Such similes of elevations are the names of the virtues. Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer and fighter 80 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And the spirit—what is it to the body? Its fights’ and victories’ herald, its companion and echo. Similes, are all names of good and evil; they do not speak out, they only hint. A fool who seeketh knowledge from them! Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your spirit would speak in similes: there is the origin of your virtue. Elevated is then your body, and raised up; with its delight, enraptureth it the spirit; so that it becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and everything’s benefactor. When your heart overfloweth broad and full like the river, a blessing and a danger to the lowlanders: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye are exalted above praise and blame, and your will would command all things, as a loving one’s will: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye despise pleasant things, and the effeminate couch, and cannot couch far enough from the effeminate: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye are willers of one will, and when that change of every need is needful to you: there is the origin of your virtue. Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily, a new deep mur- muring, and the voice of a new fountain! | Power is it, this new virtue; a ruling thought is it, and around it a subtle soul: a golden sun, with the serpent of knowledge around it. 2 Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked lovingly on his disciples. Then he cortinued to speak thus— and his voice had changed: THE BESTOWING VIRTUE Sr Remain true to the earth, my brethren, with the power of your virtue! Let your bestowing love and your knowledge be devoted to be the meaning of the earth! Thus do I pray and conjure you. Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat against eternal walls with its wings! Ah, there hath always been so much flown-away virtue! Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue back to the earth—yea, back to body and life: that it may give to the earth its mean- ing, a human meaning! A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as virtue flown away and blundered. Alas! in our body dwelleth still all this delusion and blundering: body and will hath it there become. A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as virtue at- tempted and erred. Yea, an attempt hath man been. Alas, much ignorance and error hath become embodied in us! Not only the rationality of miullennia—also their mad- ness, breaketh out in us. Dangerous is it to be an heir. Still fight we step by step with the giant Chance, and over all mankind hath hitherto ruled nonsense, the lack-of-sense. Let your spirit and your virtue be devoted to the sense of the earth, my brethren: let the value of everything be determined anew by you! Therefore shall ye be fighters! Therefore shall ye be creators! Intelligently doth the body purify itself; attempting with intelligence it exalteth itself; to the discerners all impulses sanctify themselves; to the exalted the soul becometh joyful. Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also heal thy patient. Let it be his best cure to see with his eyes him who maketh himself whole. A thousand paths are there which have never yet been trodden; a thousand salubrities and hidden islands of life 82 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Unexhausted and undiscovered is still man and man’s world. Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From the future come winds with stealthy pinions, and to fine ears good tidings are proclaimed. Ye lonesome ones of today, ye seceding ones, ye shall one day be a people: out of you who have chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people arise:—and out of it the Superman. Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become! And already is a new odour diffused around it, a salvation-bringing ~dour—and a new hope! 3 When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he paused, like one who had not said his last word; and long did he balance the staff doubtfully in his hand. At last he spake thus—and his voice had changed: I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go away, and alone! So will I have it. Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Per- haps he hath deceived you. The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but also to hate his friends. One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar. And why will ye not pluck at my wreath? Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration should some day collapse? Take heed lest a statue crush you! Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account 1s Zarathustra! Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers! : THE BESTOWING VIRTUE 83 Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all believers; therefore all belief is of so little account. Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you. Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek m lost ones; with another love shall I then love you. And once again shall ye have become friends unto me, an children of one hope: then will I be with you for the third tim« to celebrate the great noontide with you. And it is the great noontide, when man is in the middle of his course between animal and Superman, and celebrateth his advance to the evening as his highest hope: for it is the ad- vance to a new morning. At such time will the down-goer bless himself, that he should be an over-goer; and the sun of his knowledge will be at noontide. “Dead are all the Gods: now do we desire the Superman to live.”’—Let this be our final will at the great noontide!—~ Thus spake Zarathustra. THUs SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA SECOND PART “—-and only when ye have all deniec me, will I return unto you. Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; witk another love shall I then love you.” — ZARATHUSTRA, I, “The Bestowing Wirtue” (p. 92). 22. The Child with the Mirror AFTER this Zarathustra returned again into the mountains ty the solitude of his cave, and withdrew himself from men, waiting like a sower who hath scattered his seed. His soul, however, became impatient and full of longing for those whom he loved: because he had still much to give them. For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love, and keep modest as a giver. Thus passed with the lonesome one months and years; his wisdom meanwhile increased, and caused him pain by its abundance. One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy dawn, and having meditated long on his couch, at last spake thus to his heart: Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke? Did not a child come to me, carrying a mirror? “O Zarathustra’’—said the child unto me—"‘look at thyself in the mirror!” But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked, and my heart throbbed: for not myself did I see therein, but a devil's grimace and derision. Verily, all too well do I understand the dream’s portent and monition: my doctrine is in danger; tares want to be called wheat! Mine enemies have grown powerful and have disfigured the 87 88 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA likeness of my doctrine, so that my dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I gave them. Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me to seek my lost ones!— With these words Zarathustra started up, not however like a person in anguish seeking relief, but rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and serpent gaze upon him: for a coming bliss over- spread his countenance like the rosy dawn. What hath happened unto me, mine animals?—said Zara- thustra. Am I not transformed? Hath not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind? Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will it speak: it is still too young—so have patience with it! Wounded am I by my happiness: all sufferers shall be physicians unto me! To my friends can I again go down, and also to mine enemies! Zarathustra can again speak and bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones! My impatient love overfloweth in streams,—down towards sunrise and sunset. Out of silent mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul into the valleys. Too long have I longed and looked into the distance. Too long hath solitude possessed me: thus have I unlearned to keep silence. Utterance have I become altogether, and the brawling of a brook from high rocks: downward into the valleys will I hurl my speech. And let the stream of my love sweep into unfrequented channels! How should a stream not finally find its way to the sea! THE CHILD: WITH THE MIRROR 89 Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and self-sufficing; but the stream of my love beareth this along with it, down—to the sea! New paths do IJ tread, a new speech cometh unto me; tired have I become—like all creators—of the old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on worn-out soles. Too slowly runneth all speaking for me:—into thy chariot, O storm, do I leap! And even thee will I whip with my spite! Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide seas, till I find the Happy Isles where my friends sojourn;— And mine enemies amongst them! How I now love every one unto whom I may but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss. | And when I want to mount my wildest fee then doth my spear always help me up best: it is my foot’s evet tr ready servant :— The spear which I hurl at mine enemies! How grateful am i to mine enemies that I may at last hurl it! Too great hath been the tension of my cloud: ’twixt laugh- ters of lightnings will I cast hail-showers into the depths. Violently will my breast then heave; violently will it blow its storm over the mountains: thus cometh its assuagement. Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and my freedom! But mine enemies shall think that the evil one roareth over their heads. Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my wild wis- dom; and perhaps ye will flee therefrom, alone with mine enemies. Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with shepherds’ flutes! Ah, that my lioness wisdom would learn to roar softly! And much have we already learned with one-another! My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lonesome moun- 90 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA tains; on the rough stones did she bear the youngest of her young. Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilderness, and seeketh and seeketh the soft sward—mine old, wild wisdom! On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends!—on your love, would she fain couch her dearest one!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 24. In the Happy Isles THE figs fall from the trees, they are good and sweet; and in falling the red skins of them break. A north wind am I to ripe figs. Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you, my friends: imbibe now their juice and their sweet substance! It is autumn all around, and clear sky, and afternoon. Lo, what fullness is around us! And out of the midst of superabundance, it is delightful to look out upon distant seas. Once did people say God, when they looked out upon dis- tant seas; now, however, have I taught you to say, Superman. God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond your creating will. Could ye create a God?—Then, I pray you, be silent about all gods! But ye could well create the Superman. Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But into fathers and forefathers of the Superman could ye transform your- selves: and let that be your best creating!— IN THE HAPPY BHsLles 9. God is a conjecture: but I should like your conjecturing re- stricted to the conceivable. Could ye conceive a God?—But let this mean Will to Truth unto you, that everything be transformed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discernment shall ye follow out to the end! And what ye have called the world shall but be created by you: your reason, your likeness, your will, your love, shall it itself become! And verily, for your bliss, ye discerning ones! And how would ye endure life without that hope, ye dis- cerning ones? Neither in the inconceivable could ye have been born, nor in the irrational. But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto you, my friends: if there were gods, how could | endure it to be no God! There- fore there are no gods. Yea, I have drawn the conclusion: now, however, doth it draw me.— God is a conjecture: but who could drink all the bitterness of this conjecture without dying? Shall his faith be taken from the creating one, and from the eagle his flights into eagle- heights? God is a thought—it maketh all the straight crooked, and all that standeth reel. What? Time would be gone, and all the perishable would be but a lie? To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily, the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such a thing. Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teaching about the one, and the plenum, and the unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable! All the imperishable—that’s but a simile, and the poets lie too much.— 92 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA - But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of all perishableness! Creating—that is the great salvation from suffering, and lite’s alleviation. But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much transformation. Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers of all perishable- ness. For the creator himself to be the new-born child, he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and endure the pangs of the child-bearer. Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way, and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes. Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-breaking last hours. But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or, to tell you it more candidly: just such a fate—willeth my Will. All feeling suffereth in me, and is in prison: but my welling ever cometh to me as mine emancipator and comforter. Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will and emancipation—so teacheth you Zarathustra. No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no Fe) creating! Ah, that that great debility may ever be far from me! And also in discerning do I feel only my will’s procreating and evolving delight; and if there be innocence in my knowl- edge, it is because there is will to procreation in tt. Away from God and gods did this will allure me; what would there be to create if there were—gods! But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer to the stone. Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image for me, the image of my visions! Ah, that it should slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone! THE PITIFUL y4 Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone fly the fragments: what's that to.me? { will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—the stillest and lightest of all things once came unto me! The beauty of the superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now are—the gods to me!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 25. The Pitiful My FRIENDS, there hath arisen a satire on your friend: ““Be- hold Zarathustra! Walketh he not amongst us as if amongst animals?”’ But it is better said in this wise: ‘“The discerning one walketh amongst men as amongst animals.” Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal with red cheeks. How hath that happened unto him? Is it not because he hath had to be ashamed too oft? O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning one: shame, shame, shame—that is the history of man! And on that account doth the noble one enjoin on him- self not to abash: bashfulness doth he enjoin himself in presence of all sufferers. Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose bliss is ut their pity: too destitute are they ot bashfulness. If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so; and if I be so, it is preferably at a distance. y4 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee, before being recognised: and thus do I bid you do, my friends! May my destiny ever lead unafilicted ones like you across my path, and those with whom I may have hope and repast and honey in common! Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but some- thing better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself better. Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren, is our original sin! And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we anlearn best to give pain unto others, and to contrive pain. Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped the sufferer; therefore do I wipe also my soul. For in seeing the sufferer suffering—thereof was I ashamed on account of his shame; and in helping him, sorely did I wound his pride. Great obligations do not make grateful, but revengeful; and when a small kindness is not forgotten, it becometh a gnawiag worm. “Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accepting!”’"—thus do I advise those who have naught to bestow. I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow as friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit from my tree: thus doth it cause less shame. Beggars, however, one should entirely do away with! Verily, it annoyeth one to give unto them, and it annoyeth one not to give unto them. And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the sting of conscience teacheth one to sting. THE PITIFUL 95 The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than to have thought pettily! To be sure, ye say: ‘““The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great evil deed.’’ But here one should not wish to be sparing. Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh forth—it speaketh honourably. ‘““Behold, I am disease,’ saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness. But like infection is the petty thought: it creepeth and hideth, and wanteth to be nowhere—auntil the whole body ts decayed and withered by the petty infection. To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I would whisper this word in the ear: “Better for thee to rear up thy devil! Even for thee there ‘s still a path to greatness!’’— Ah, my brethren! One knoweth a little too much about every one! And many a one becometh transparent to us, but still we can by no means penetrate him. It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult. And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us at all. If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a resting- place for his suffering; like a hard bed, however, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou serve him best. And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: ‘I forgive thee what thou hast done unto me; that thou hast done it unto thyself, however—how could I forgive that!”’ Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity. One should hold fast one’s heart; for when one letteth it go, how quickly doth one’s head run away! Ah, where in the world have ther been greater follies than 96 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA with the pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the follies of the pitiful? Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their pity! Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: ‘“‘Even God hath his hell: it is his love for man.” And lately, did I hear him say these words: ‘“God is dead: of his pity for man hath God died.” — So be ye warned against pity: fron: thence there yet cometh unto men a heavy cloud! Verily, I understand weather-signs! But attend also to this word: All great love is above all its pity: for it seeketh—to create what is loved! “Myself do I offer unto my love, and my neighbour as my- self’’—such is the language of ali creators. All creators, however, are hard.— Thus spake Zarathustra. 26. The Priests AND one day Zarathustra made a sign to his disciples and spake these words unto them: “Here are priests: but although they are mine enemies, pass them quietly and with sleeping swords! Even among them there are heroes; many of them have suffered too much:— so they want to make others suffer. Bad enemies are they: nothing is more revengeful than theit meekness, And readily doth he soil himself who toucheth them. THE PRIESTS © 97 But ny blood is related to theirs; and I want withal to see my blood honoured in theirs.” — And when they had passed, a pain attacked Zarathustra; but not long had he struggled with the pain, when he began to speak thus: It moveth my heart for those priests. They also go against my taste; but that is the smallest matter unto me, since I am among men. But I suffer and have suffered with them: prisoners are they unto me, and stigmatised ones. He whom they call Saviour put them in fetters:— In fetters of false values and fatuous words! Oh, that some one would save them from their Saviour! On an tsle they once thought they had landed, when the sea tossed them about; but behold, it was a slumbering monster! False values and fatuous words: these are the worst mon- sters for mortals—long slumbereth and waiteth the fate that is in them. But at last it cometh and awaketh and devoureth and en- gulfeth whatever hath built tabernacles upon it. Oh, just look at those tabernacles which those priests have built themselves! Churches, they call their sweet-smelling caves! Oh, that falsified light, that mustified air! Where the soul— may not fly aloft to its height! But so enjoineth their belief: “On your knees, up the stair, ye sinners!” Verily, rather would I see a shameless one than the dis- torted eyes of their shame and devotion! Who created for themselves such caves and penitence- stairs? Was it not those who sought to conceal themselves, and were ashamed under the clear sky? 9& THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And only when the clear sky looketh again through ruined roofs, and down upon grass and red poppies on ruined walls— will I again turn my heart to the seats of this God. They called God that which opposed and afflicted them: and verily, there was much hero-spirit in their worship! And they knew not how to love their God otherwise than by nailing men to the cross! As corpses they thought to live; in black draped they their corpses; even in their talk do I still feel the evil flavour of charnel-houses. And he who liveth nigh unto them liveth nigh unto black pools, wherein the toad singeth his song with sweet gravity. Better songs would they have to sing, for me to believe in their Saviour: more like saved ones would his disciples have to appear unto me! Naked, would I like to see them: for beauty alone should preach penitence. But whom would that disguised affliction convince! Verily, their saviours themselves came not from freedom and freedom’s seventh heaven! Verily, they themselves never trod the carpets of knowledge! Of defects did the spirit of those saviours consist; but into every defect had they put their illusion, their stop-gap, which they called God. In their pity was their spirit drowned; and when they swelled and o’erswelled with pity, there always floated to the surface a great folly. Eagerly and with shouts drove they their flock over their foot-bridge; as if there were but one foot-bridge to the future! Verily, those shepherds also were still of the flock! Small spirits and spacious souls had those shepherds: but, THE VIRTUOUS 99 my brethren, what small domains have even the most spacious souls hitherto been! Characters of blood did they write on the way they went, and their folly taught that truth ts proved by blood. But blood is the very worst witness to truth; blood tainteth the purest teaching, and turneth it into delusion and hatred of heart. And when a person goeth through fire for his teaching— what doth that prove! It is more, verily, when out of one’s own burning cometh one’s own teaching! Sultry heart and cold head; where these meet, there ariseth the blusterer, the “‘Saviour.”’ Greater ones, verily, have there been, and higher-born ones, than those whom the people call saviours, those rapturous blusterers! And by still greater ones than any of the saviours must ye be saved, my brethren, if ye would find the way to freedom! Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, the greatest man and the smallest man:— All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily, even the greatest found I—all-too-human!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 27. The Virtuous WitH thunder and heavenly fireworks must one speak to in- dolent and somnolent senses. But beauty’s voice speaketh gently: it appealeth only to the most awakened souls. 100 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Gently vibrated and laughed unto me to-day my buckler; it was beauty’s holy laughing and thrilling. » At you, ye virtuous ones, laughed my beauty to-day. And thus came its voice unto me: ‘“They want—to be paid besides!”’ Ye want to be paid besides, ye virtuous ones! Ye want re- ward for virtue, and heaven for earth, and eternity for your to- day? And now ye upbraid me for teaching that there is no reward- giver, nor paymaster? And verily, I do not even teach that virtue is its own reward. Ah! this is my sorrow: into the basis of things have reward and punishment been insinuated—and now even into the hasis of your souls, ye virtuous ones! But like the snout of the boar shall my word grub up the basis of your souls; a ploughshare will I be called by you. All the secrets of your heart shall be brought to light; and when ye lie in the sun, grubbed up and broken, then will also your falsehood be separated from your truth. For this is your truth: ye are too pure for the filth of the words: vengeance, punishment, recompense, retribution. Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child; but when did one hear of a mother wanting to be paid for her love? It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring’s thirst is in you: to reach itself again struggleth every ring, and turneth itself. And like the star that goeth out, so is every work of your virtue: ever is its light on its way and travelling—and when will it cease to be on its way? Thus is the light of your virtue still on its way, even when its work is done. Be it forgotten and dead, still its ray of light liveth and travelleth. That your virtue is your Self, and not an outward thing, a « THE VIRTUOUS Ior skin, or a cloak: that is the truth from the basis of your souls, ye virtuous ones!— But sure enough there are those to whom virtue meaneth writhing under the lash: and ye have hearkened too much unto their crying! And others are there who call virtue the slothfulness of their vices; and when once their hatred and jealousy relax the limbs, their ‘‘justice’’ becometh lively and rubbeth its sleepy eyes. And others are there who are drawn downwards: their devils draw them. But the more they sink, the more ardently gloweth their eye, and the longing for their God. Ah! their crying also hath reached your ears, ye virtuous ones: ‘““What I am not, that, that is God to me, and virtue!” And others are there who go along heavily and creakingly, like carts taking stones downhill: they talk much of dignity and virtue—their drag they call virtue! And others are there who are like eight-day clocks when wound up; they tick, and want people to call ticking—virtue. Verily, in those have I mine amusement: wherever I find such clocks I shall wind them up with my mockery, and they shall even whirr thereby! And others are proud of their modicum of righteousness, and for the sake of it do violence to all things: so that the world is drowned in their unrighteousness. Ah! how ineptly cometh the word “‘virtue’”’ out of their mouth! And when they say: “I am just,” it always soundeth like: “I am just—revenged!”’ With their virtues they want to scratch out the eyes of their enemics; and they elevate themselves only that they may lower others. . And again there are those who sit in their swamp, fod speak 102 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA thus from among the bulrushes: ‘“Virtue— that is to sit quietly in the swamp. We bite no one, and go out of the way of him who would bite; and in all matters we have the opinion that is given us.” And again there are those who love attitudes, and think that virtue is a sort of attitude. Their knees continually adore, and their hands are eulogies of virtue, but their heart knoweth naught thereof. And again there are those who regard it as virtue to say: “Virtue is necessary’ ’; but after all they believe only that police- men are necessary. And many a one who cannot see men’s loftiness, calleth it virtue to see their baseness far too well: thus calleth he his evil eye virtue.— And some want to be edified and raised up, and call it virtue: and others want to be cast down,—and likewise call it virtue. And thus do almost all think that they participate in virtue; and at least every one claimeth to be an authority on “good” and “evil.” But Zarathustra came not to say unto all those liars and fools: “What do ye know of virtue! What could ye know of virtue!’ — But that ye, my friends, might become weary of the old words which ye have learned from the fools and liars: That ye might become weary of the words “reward,” “‘retri- oution,’ “punishment,” “righteous vengeance.’ — That ye might become weary of saying: ‘That an action 1s good is because it is unselfish.” Ah! my friends! That your very Self be in your action, as the mother is in the child: let that be your formula of virtue! THE RABBLE 103 Verily, I have taken from you a hundred formule and yout virtue’s favourite playthings; and now ye upbraid me, as children upbraid. They played by the sea—then came there a wave and swept their playthings into the deep: and now do they cry. But the same wave shall bring them new playthings, and spread before them new speckled shells! Thus will they be comforted; and like thera shall ye also, my friends, have your comforting—and new speckled shells!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 28. The Rabble LIFE is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all fountains are poisoned. To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see the grinning mouths and the thirst of the unclean. They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glanceth up to me their odious smile out of the fountain. The holy water have they poisoned with their lustfulness; and when they called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words. Indignant becometh the flame when they put their damp hearts to the fire; the spirit itself bubbleth and smoketh when the rabble approach the fire. Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit in their hands: unsteady, and withered at the top. doth their look make the fruit-tree. 104 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And many a one who hath turned away from life, hath only turned away from the rabble: he hated to share with them fountain, flame, and fruit. And many a one who hath gone into the wilderness and suffered thirst with beasts of prey, disliked only to sit at: the cistern with filthy camel-drivers. And many a one who hath come along as a destroyer, and as a hailstorm to all cornfields, wanted merely to put his foot into the jaws of the rabble, and thus stop their throat. And it is not the mouthful which hath most choked me, to know that life itself requireth enmity and death and torture- crosses :— But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my question: What? Is the rabble also necessary for life? Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking fires, and Glthy dreams, and maggots in the bread of life? Not my hatred, but my loathing, gnawed hungrily at my life! Ah, ofttimes became I weary of spirit, when I found even the rabble spiritual! And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw what they now call ruling: to traffic and bargain for power—with the rabble! | Amongst peoples of a strange language did I dwell, with stopped ears: so that the language of their trafficking might remain strange unto me, and their bargaining for power. And holding my nose, I went morosely through all yester- days and todays: verily, badly smell all yesterdays and todays of the scribbling rabble! Like a cripple become deaf, and blind, and dumb—thus have I lived long; that I might not live with the power-rabble, the scribe-rabble, and the pleasure-rabble. Toilsomely did my spirit mount stairs, and cautiously; alms “SHE RABBLE> |: ~*~ 105 of delight were its refreshment; on the staff did life creep along with the blind one. What hath happened unto me? How have I freed myself from loathing? Who hath rejuvenated mine eye? How have I flewn to the height where no rabble any longer sit at the wells? Did my loathing itself create for mie wings and fountain- divinin,x powers? Verily, to the loftiest height had I to Hy, to find again the well of delight! Oh, I have found it, my brethren! Here on the loftiest then bubbleth up for me the well of delight! And there ts a life at whose waters none of the rabble drink with me! Almost too violently dost thou flow for me, thou fountain of delight! And often emptiest thou the goblet Jee in want- ing to fill it! And yet must I learn to approach thee more modestly: far too violently doth my heart still flow towards thee: — , My heart on which my summer burneth, my short, hot, melancholy, over-happy summer: how my summer heart longeth for thy coolness! Past, the lingering distress of my spring! Past, the wicked- ness of my snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide! A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissful stillness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become more blissful! For this is ovr height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell for all uncleanly ones and their thirst. Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! How could it become turbid thereby! It shall laugh back to you with ts purity. Puy) . mw, ae, ay . ty it ec os a pRB XY 106 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRKA On the tree of the future build we our nest, eagles shalt bring us lone ones food in their beaks! Verily, no food of which the impure could be fellow-par- takers! Fire,-would they think they devoured, and burn their mouths! Verily, no abodes do we here keep ready for the impure! An ice-cave to their bodies would our happiness be, and to their spirits! And as strong winds will we live above them, neighbours to the eagles, neighbours to the snow, neighbours to the sun: thus live the strong winds. And like a wind will I one day blow amongst them, and with my spirit, take the breath from their spirit: thus willeth my future. Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low places; and this counsel counselleth he to his enemies, and to whatever spitteth and speweth: ‘Take care not to spit agamnst the wind!”’— Thus spake Zarathustra. 29. The Tarantulas Lo, THIS is the tarantula’s den! Would’st thou see the taran- tula itself? Here hangeth its web: touch this, so that 1t may tremble. There cometh the tarantula willingly: Welcome, tarantula! Black on thy back is thy triangle and symbol; and I know also what is in thy soul. THE TARANTULAS 107 Revenge is in thy soul: wherever thou bitest, there ariseth black scab; with revenge, thy poison maketh the soul giddy! Thus do I speak unto you in parable, ye who make the soul giddy, ye preachers of equality! Tarantulas are ye unto me, and secretly revengeful ones! But I will soon bring your hiding-places to the light: there- fore do I laugh in your face my laughter of the height. Therefore do I tear at your web, that your rage may lure you out of your den of lies, and that your revenge may leap forth from behind your word “‘justice.”’ Because, for man to be redeemed from revenge—that 1s for me the bridge to the highest hope, and a rainbow after long storms. Otherwise, however, would the tarantulas have it. “Let 1t he very justice for the world to become full of the storms ot our vengeance’ —thus do they talk to one another. “Vengeance will we use, and insult, against all who are not like us’’—thus do the tarantula-hearts pledge themselves. “And ‘Will to Equality’—that itself shall henceforth be the name of virtue; and against ali that hath power will we raise an outcry!” Ye preachers of equality, the tyrant-frenzy of impotence crieth thus in you for ‘equality’: your most secret tyrant- longings disguise themselves thus in virtue-words! Fretted conceit and suppressed envy—perhaps your fathers’ conceit and envy: in you break they forth as flame and frenzy of vengeance. What the father hath hid cometh out in the son; and oft have I found in the son the father’s revealed secret. Inspired ones they resemble: but it is not the heart that in- spireth them—but vengeance. And when they become subtle and cold, it is not spirit, but envy, that maketh them so. 108 THUS SPAKE ZARAVHUSTRA Their jealousy leadeth them also iuto thinkers’ paths; and this is the sign of their jealousy—they always go too far: so that their fatigue hath at last to go to sleep on the snow. In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance, in all their eulogies is maleficence; and being judge seemeth to them bliss. But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful! They are people of bad race and lineage; out of their coun- tenances peer the hangman and the sleuth-hound. Distrust all those who talk much of their justice! Verily, in their souls not only honey is lacking. And when they call themselves ‘‘the good and just,” forget not, that for them to be Pharisees, nothing is lacking but— power! My friends, I will not be mixed up and confounded with others. There are those who preach my doctrine of life, and are at the same time preachers of equality, and tarantulas. That they speak in favour of life, though they sit 1n their den, these poison-spiders, and withdrawn from life—is be- cause they would thereby do injury. To those would they thereby do injury who have power at present: for with those the preaching of death is still most at home. Were it otherwise, then would the tarantulas teach other- wise: and they themselves were formerly the best world- rnaligners and heretic-burners. With these preachers of equality will I not be mixed up and confounded. For thus speaketh justice xnto me: “Meti are not equal.” : And neither shall we become so! What would be my love to the Superman, if I spake otherwise? THE TARANTULAS 109 On a thousand bridges and piers shall they throng to the future, and always shall there be more war and inequality among them: thus doth my great love make me speak! Inventors of figures and phantoms shall they be in their hostilities; and with those figures and phantoms shall they yet fight with each other the supreme fight! Good and evil, and rich and poor, and high and low, and all names of values: weapons shall they be, and sounding signs, that life must again and again surpass itself! Aloft will it build itself with columns and stairs—life itself: into remote distances would it gaze, and out towards blissful beauties—therefore doth it require elevation! And because it requireth elevation, therefore doth it re- quire steps, and variance of steps and climbers! To rise striveth life, and in rising to surpass itself. And just behold, my friends! Here where the tarantula’s den is, riseth aloft an ancient temple’s US a behold it stn enlightened eyes! Verily, he who here towered aloft his thoughts in stone, knew as well as the wisest enes about the secret of life! That there is struggle and inequality even in beauty, and war for power and supremacy: that doth’ he’ here teach us in the plainest parable. How divinely do vault and arch here contrast in the struggle: how with light and shade they strive Seal each other, the divinely striving ones.— Thus, steadfast and beautiful, let us also be enemies, ‘my friends! Divinely will we strive agaznst one another!— Alas! There hath the tarantula bit me myself, mine old enemy! Divinely steadfast and SASL it hath bit me on the finger! : 2 ‘Punishment must there be, and Ane —so.thinketh it: ilo THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA “not gratuitously shall he here sing songs in honour of enmity!” Yea, it hath revenged itself! And alas! now will it make my soul also dizzy with revenge! That [ may not turn dizzy, however, bind me fast, my friends, to this pillar! Rather will I be a pillar-saint than a whirl of vengeance! Verily, no cyclone or whirlwind is Zarathustra: and if he be a dancer, he is not at all a tarantula-dancer!— Uhus spake Zarathustra. 30. The Famous Wise Ones THE peopie have ye served and the people’s superstition—wot the truth!—all ye famous wise ones! And just on that account did they pay you reverence. And on that account also did they tolerate your unbelief, because it was a pleasantry and a by-path for the people. Thus doth the master give free scope to his slaves, and even en- joyeth their presumptuousness. But he who is hated by the people, as the wolf by the dogs ——is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods. To hunt him out of his lair—that was always called ‘‘sense of right’’ by the people: on him do they still hound their sharpest-toothed dogs. ‘‘For there the truth is, where the people are! Woe, woe to ‘he seeking cnes!”’—thus hath ‘t echoed through all time. THE FAMOUS WISE ONES II} Your people would ye justify in their reverence: that called ye “Will to Truth,” ye famous wise ones! And your heart hath always said to itself: ‘From the people have I come: from thence came to me also the voice of God.” Stiff-necked and artful, like the ass, have ye always been, as the advocates of the people. And many a powerful one who wanted to run well with the people, hath harnessed in front of his horses—a donkey, a famous wise man. And now, ye famous wise ones, I would have you finally throw off entirely the skin of the lion! The skin of the beast of prey, the speckled skin, and the dishevelled locks of the investigator, the searcher, and the con- queror! Ah! for me to learn to believe in your ‘‘conscientiousness,” ye would first have to break your venerating will. Conscientious—so call I him who goeth into God-forsaken wildernesses, and hath broken his venerating heart. In the yellow sands and burnt by the sun, he doubtless peereth thirstily at the isles rich in fountains, where life re- poseth under shady trees. But his thirst doth not persuade him to become like those comfortable ones: for where there are oases; there are also idols. Hungry, fierce, lonesome, God-forsaken: so doth the lion- will wish itself. Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from deities and adorations, fearless and fear-inspiring, grand and lone- some: so is the will of the conscientious. In the wilderness have ever dwelt the conscientious, the free spirits, 25 lords of the wilderness; but in the cities dwell the well-foddered, famous wise ones—the draught-beasts. jee 9: “THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA For, always -do they draw, as asses—the eo ple’s carts! Not that I on that account upbraid them: but serving ones do they remain, and harnessed ones, even though Bn ae: in golden harness. And often have they been good servants and worthy of their hire. For thus saith virtue: “If thou must be a servant, seek him unto whom thy service is most useful! The spirit and virtue of thy master shall advance by thou being his servant: thus wilt thou thyself advance with his spirit and virtue!” And verily, ye famous wise ones, ye servants of the people! Ye yourselves have advanced with the people’s spirit and vir- tue—and the people by you! To your honour do say it! But the people ye remain for me, even with your virtues, the people with purblind eyes—the people who know not what spirit is! Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life: by its own torture doth it increase its own knowledge,—did ye know that before? And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and conse- crated with tears as a sacrificial victim,—did ye know that be- fore? And the blindness of the blind one, and his seeking and groping, shall yet testify to the power of the sun into which he hath gazed,—did ye know that before? And with mountains shall the discerning one learn to dui/d! It is a small thing for the spirit to remove mountains,—did ye know that before? Ye know only the sparks of the spirit: but ye do not see the anvil which it is, and the cruelty of its hammer! Verily, ye know not the spirit’s pride! But still less could ve endure the spirit’s humility, should it ever want to speak! And never yet could ye cast your spirit into a pit of snow: THE NIGHT-SONG * ‘gd. ye are not hot enough for that! phys are ye unawate, , also, of the delight of its coldness. as In all respects, however, ye make too familiar with the spirit; and out of wisdom have ye often made an alms-house and a hospital for bad poets. Ye are not eagles: thus have ye never experienced the happi- ness of the alarm of the spirit. And he who 1s not a bird should not camp above abysses. Ye seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly floweth all deep knowledge. Ice-cold are the innermost wells of the spirit: a refreshment to hot hands and handlers. Respectable do ye there stand, and stiff, and with straight backs, ye famous wise ones!—no strong wind or will im- pelleth you. Have ye ne’er seen a sail crossing the sea, rounded and in: flated, and trembling with the violence of the wind? Like the sail trembling with the violence of the spirit, doth my wisdom cross the sea—my wild wisdom! But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise ones—how could ye go with me!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 31. The Night-Song ‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain. ‘Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one. Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within. me; # I1l4 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA longetk. to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the language of love. Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light! Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light! And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft!—and would rejoice in the gifts of your light. But I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me. I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving. It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing. Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety! They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap ‘twixt giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over. A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I illumine; I should like to rob those I have gifted:-— thus do I hunger for wickedness. Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretcheth out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesi- tateth even in its leap:—thus do I hunger for wickedness! Such revenge doth mine abundance think of: such mischief welleth out of my lonesomeness. My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance! He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing his shame; tc THE NIGHT-SONG Et 5 him who ever dispenseth, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing. Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath become too hard for the trembling of filled hands. Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones! Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with their light—but to me they are silent. Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: un- pityingly doth it pursue its course. Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns:—thus travelleth every sun. Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is theit travelling. Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness. Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light’s udders! Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst! "Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness! ‘Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain,—for speech do I long. "Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain. ‘Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.— Thus sang Zarathustra. 116 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 32. The Dance-Song ONE evening went Zarathustra and his disciples through the forest; and when he sought for a well, lo, he lighted upon a green meadow peacefully surrounded by trees and bushes where maidens were dancing together. As soon as the maidens recognised Zarathustra, they ceased dancing; Zarathustra, how- ever, approached them with friendly mien and spake these words: Cease not your dancing, ye lovely maidens! No game-spoiler hath come to you with evil eye, no enemy of maidens. God’s advocate am I with the devil: he, however, is the spirit of gravity. How could I, ye light-footed ones, be hostile to divine dances? Or to maidens’ feet with fine ankles? To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses ander my cypresses. And even the little God may he find, who is dearest to maidens: beside the well lieth he quietly, with closed eyes. Verily, in broad daylight did he fall asleep, the sluggard! Had he perhaps chased butterflies too much? Upbraid me not, ye beautiful dancers, when I chasten the little God somewhat! He will cry, certainly, and weep—but he is laughable even when weeping! And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a dance; and I myself will sing a song to his dance: A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity my su- premest, powerfulest devil, who is said to be “lord of the world.” — THE DANCE-SONG 117 And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when Cupid and the maidens danced together: Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life! And into the un- fathomable did I there seem to sink. But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle; derisively didst thou laugh when I called thee unfathomable. ‘Such is the language of all fish,” saidst thou; “what they do not fathom is unfathomable. But changeable am I only, and wild, and altogether a woman, and no virtuous one: Though I be called by you men the ‘profound one,’ or the ‘faithful one,’ ‘the eternal one,’ ‘the mysterious one.’ But ye men endow us always with your own virtues—alas, ye virtuous ones!” Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but never do I be- lieve her and her laughter, when she speaketh evil of herself. And when I talked face to face with my wild Wisdom, she said to me angrily: “Thou willest, thou cravest, thou lovest; on that account alone dost thou prazse Life!”’ Then had I almost answered indignantly and told the truth to the angry one; and one cannot answer more indignantly than when one “‘telleth the truth” to one’s Wisdom. For thus do things stand with us three. In my heart do I love only Life—and verily, most when I hate her! But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too fond, is be- cause she remindeth me very strongly of Life! She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden angle-rod: am I responsible for it that both are so alike? And when once Life asked me: “Who is she then, this Wis- dom?”’—then said I eagerly: “Ah, yes! Wisdom! 118 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one looketh through veils, one graspeth through nets. Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured by her. Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and pass the comb against the grain of her hair. Perhaps she 1s wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she speaketh ill of herself, just then doth she seduce most.” When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she mali- ciously, and shut her eyes. “Of whom dost thou speak?” said she. “Perhaps of me? And if thou wert right—is it proper to say ¢hat in such wise to my face! But now, pray, speak also of thy Wisdom!” Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine eyes, O beloved Life! And into the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink,— Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had departed, he became sad. ‘The sun hath been long set,” said he at last, ‘‘the meadow is damp, and from the forest cometh coolness. An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou livest still, Zarathustra? Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to live?-— Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me. Forgive me my sadness! Evening hath come on: forgive me that evening hath come Ona Thus sang Zarathustra. THE GRAVE-SONG 119 33. The Grave-Song ‘YONDER is the grave-island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves of my youth. Thither will I carry an evergreen wreath of life.’ Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o’er the sea.— Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all ye gleams of love, ye divine fleeting gleams! How could ye perish so soon for me! I think of you to-day as my dead ones. From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto me a sweet savour, heart-opening and melting. Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart of the lone seafarer. Still am I the richest and most to be envied—lI, the lone- somest one! For I have possessed you, and ye possess me still. Tell me: to whom hath there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen unto me? Still am I your love’s heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O ye dearest ones! Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each other, ye kindly strange marvels; and not like timid birds did ye come to me and my longing—nay, but as trusting ones to a trusting one! Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities, must J now name you by your faithlessness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams: no other name have I yet learnt. Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives. Yet did ye not flee from me, nor did I flee from you: innocent are we tc each other in our faithlessness. To kill me, did they strangle you, ye singing birds of my 120 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA hopes! Yea, at you, ye dearest ones, did malice ever shoot its arrows—to hit my heart! And they hit it! Because ye were always my dearest, my possession and my possessedness: on that account had ye to die young, and. far too early! At my most vulnerable point did they shoot. the arrow— namely, at you, whose skin is like down—or more like the smile that dieth at a glance! _ But this word will I say unto mine enemies: What is all man- slaughter in comparison with what ye have done unto me! Worse evil did ye do unto me than all manslaughter; the irretrievable did ye take from me:—thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies!. - Slew ye not my youth’s visions and dearest marvels! My playmates took ye:from me, the blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit this wreath and this-curse. _ This curse upon you, mine enemies! Have ye not made thine ee short, as a tone dieth away in a cold night! Scarcely, as the eee divine eyes, did it come to me—as a fleeting gleam! =; © | Thus ee once in a happy hour Dy Be “Divine shall everything be unto me.” Then did ye haunt me. Sith foul phantoms; ah, whither hath that happy hour.now fled! ‘‘All days shall be holy unto me’’—so spake once the wis- dom of my youth: verily, the language of a joyous wisdom! ' But then did ye enemies steal my nights, and sold them to sleepless torture: ah, whither. hath that ees wisdom now fled? Once did: long for rat auspices: then did ye lead an owl- monster across my path, an adverse sign. Ah, whither did my tender longing then flee?.. 3 THE GRAVE-SONG T21 All loathing did I once vow to renounce: then did ye change my nigh ones and nearest ones into ulcerations. Ah, whither did my noblest vow then flee? As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways: then did ye cast filth on the blind one’s course: and now is he disgusted with the old footpath. And when I performed my hardest task, and celebrated the triumph of my victories, then did ye make those who loved me call out that I then grieved them most. Verily, it was always your doing: ye embittered to me my best honey, and the diligence of my best bees. To my charity have ye ever sent the most impudent beggars; around my sympathy have ye ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus have ye wounded the faith of my virtue. And when I offered my holiest as a sacrifice, immediately did your “piety” put its fatter gifts beside it: so that my holiest suffocated in the fumes of your fat. And once did I want to dance as I had never yet danced: be- yond all heavens did I want to dance. Then did ye seduce my favourite minstrel. And now hath he struck up an awful, melancholy air; alas, he tooted as a mournful horn to mine ear! Murderous minstrel, instrument of evil, most innocent in- strument! Already did I stand prepared for the best dance: then didst thou slay my rapture with thy tones! Only in the dance do I know how to speak the parable of the highest things:—and now hath my grandest parable re- mained unspoken in my limbs! Unspoken and unrealised hath my highest hope remained! And there have perished for me al] the visions and consolation of my youth! eae THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and surmount such wounds? How did my soul rise again out of those sepul- chres? Yea, something invulnerable, unburiable is with me, some- thing that would rend rocks asunder: it is called my Will. Silently doth it proceed, and unchanged throughout the years. Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will; hard of heart is its nature and invulnerable. Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever livest thou there, . and art like thyself, thou most patient one! Ever hast thou burst all shackles of the tomb! In thee still liveth also the unrealisedness of my youth; and as life and youth sittest thou here hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves. Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all graves: Hail to thee, my Will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections.— Thus sang Zarathustra. 34. Self-Surpassing “WILL to Truth” do ye call it, ye wisest ones, that which im- pelleth you and maketh you ardent? Will for the thinkableness of all being: thus do J call your will! All being would ye make thinkable: for ye doubt with good reason whether it be already thinkable. But it shall accommodate and bend itself to you! So willeth SELF-SURPASSING 124 your will. Smooth shall it become and subject to the spirit, as its mirror and reflection. That is your entire will, ye wisest ones, as a Will to Power; and even when ye speak of good and evil, and of estimates of value. Ye would still create a world before which ye can bow the knee: such is your ultimate hope and ecstasy. The ignorant, to be sure, the people—they are like a river on which a boat floateth along: and in the boat sit the estimates of value, solemn and disguised. Your will and your valuations have ye put on the river of becoming; it betrayeth unto me an old Will to Power, what 1s believed by the people as good and evil. It was ye, ye wisest ones, who put such guests in this boat, and gave them pomp and proud names—ye and your ruling Will! Onward the river now carrieth your boat: it must carry it. A small matter if the rough wave foameth and angrily resisteth its keel! It is not the river that is your danger and the end of your good and evil, ye wisest ones: but that Will itself, the Will to Power—the unexhausted, procreating life-will. But that ye may understand my gospel of good and evil, for that purpose will I tell you my gospel of life, and of the nature of all living things. The living thing did I follow; I walked in the broadest and narrowest paths to leacn its nature. With a hundred-faced mirror did I catch its glance when its mouth was shut, so that its eye might speak unto me. And its eye spake unto me. But wherever I found living things, there heard I also the language of obedience. All living things are obeying things. I24 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And this heard I secondly: Whatever cannot obey itself, is commanded. Such ts the nature of living things. This, however, is the third thing which I heard—namely, that commanding is more difficult than obeying. And not only because the commander beareth the burden of all obeyers, and because this burden readily crusheth him:— An attempt and a risk seemed all commanding unto me; and whenever it commandeth, the living thing risketh itself there- by. Yea, even when it commandeth itseif, then also must it atone for its commanding. Of its own law must it become the judge and avenger and victim. How doth this happen! So did I ask myself. What persuadeth the living thing to obey, and command, and even be obedient in commanding? Hearken now unto my word, ye wisest ones! Test it seri- ously, whether I have crept into the heart of life itself, and into the roots of its heart! Wherever I found a living thing, there found I Will to Power; and even in the will of the servant found I the will to be master. That to the stronger the weaker shall serve—thereto per- suadeth he his will who would be master over a still weaker one. That delight alone he is unwilling to forego. And as the lesser surrendereth himself to the greater that he may have delight and power over the least of all, so doth even the greatest surrender himself, and staketh—life, for the sake af power. It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and danger, and play dice for death. And where there is sacrifice and service and love-glances, there also is the will to be master. By by-ways doth the weaker SELF-SURPASSING 125 then slink into the fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one—and there stealeth power. And this secret spake Life herself unto me. “Behold,” said she, “I am that which must ever surpass itself. To be sure, ye call it will to procreation, or impulse towards a goal, towards the higher, remoter, more manifold: but all that is one and the same secret. Rather would I succumb than disown this one thing; and verily, where there is succumbing and leaf-falling, lo, there doth Life sacrifice itself—-for power! That I have to be struggle, and becoming, and purpose, and cross-purpose—ah, he who divineth my will, divineth weil also on what crooked paths it hath to tread! Whatever I create, and however much I love it,—soon must I be adverse to it, and to my love: so willeth my will. And even thou, discerning one, art only a path and foot- step of my will: verily, my Will to Power walketh even on the feet of thy Will to Truth! He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at it the formula: ‘Will to existence”: that will—doth not exist! For what is not, cannot will; that, however, which is in existence—how could it still strive for existence! Only where there is life, is there also will: not, however, Will to Life, but—so teach I thee—W ll to Power! Much is reckoned higher than life itself by the living one; but out of the very reckoning speaketh—the Will to Power!” — ‘Yhus did Life once teach me: and thereby, ye wisest ones, do I solve you the riddle of your hearts. Verily, I say unto you: good and evil which wouid be ever- lasting—it doth not exist! Of its own accord must it ever surpass itself anew. i206 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA With vour values and formule of good and evil, ye exercise power, ye valuing ones: and that is your secret love, and the sparkling, trembling, and overflowing of your souls. But a stronger power groweth out of your values, and a new surpassing: by it breaketh egg and egg-shell. And he who hath to be a creator in good and evil—verily, he hath first to be a destroyer, and break values in pieces. Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however, is the creating good.— Let us speak thereof, ye wisest ones, even though it be bad. To be silent 1s worse; all suppressed truths become poisonous. And let everything break up which—can break up by our truths! Many a house ts still to be built!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 35. The Sublime Ones CALM is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hideth droll monsters! Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with swimming enigmas and laughters. A sublime one saw I today, a solemn one, a penitent of the spirit: Oh, how my soul laughed at his ugliness! With upraised breast, and like those who draw in their breath: thus did he stand, the sublime one, and in silence: O’erhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his hunting, and rich in torn raiment; many thorns also hung on him—but I saw no rose. THE SUBLIME ONES I27 Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty. Gloomy did this hunter return from the forest of knowledge. From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild beast gazeth out of his seriousness—an unconquered wild beast! As a tiger doth he ever stand, on the point of springing; but I do not like those strained souls; ungracious 1s my taste to- wards all those self-engrossed ones. And ye tell me, friends, that there is to be no dispute about taste and tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting! Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas for every living thing that would live with- out dispute about weight and scales and weigher! Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this sublime one, then only will his beauty begin—and then only will I taste him and find him savoury. And only when he turneth away from himself will he o’erleap his own shadow—and verily! into 475 sun. Far too long did he sit in the shade; the cheeks of the pent- tent of the spirit became pale; he almost starved on his expec- tations. Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hideth in his mouth. To be sure, he now resteth, but he hath not yet taken rest in the sunshine. As the ox ought he to do; and his happiness should smell of the earth, and not of contempt for the earth. As a white ox would I like to see him, which, snorting and lowing, walketh before the plough-share: and his lowing should also laud all that is earthly! Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand danceth upon it. O’ershadowed is still the sense of his eye. 128 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscureth the doer. Not yet hath he overcome his deed. To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want to see also the eye of the angel. Also his hero-will hath he still to unlearn: an exalted one shall he be, and not only a sublime one:—the ether itself should raise him, the will-less one! He hath subdued monsters, he hath solved enigmas. But he should also redeem his monsters and enigmas; into heavenly children should he transform them. As yet hath his knowledge not learned to smile, and to be without jealousy; as yet hath his gushing passion not become calm in beauty. Verily, not in satiety shall his longing cease and disappear, but in beauty! Gracefulness belongeth to the munificence of the magnanimous. His arm across his head: thus should the hero repose; thus should he also surmount his repose. But precisely to the hero is beauty the hardest thing of all. Unattainable is beauty by all ardent wills. A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the most here. To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the hardest for all of you, ye sublime ones! When power becometh gracious and descendeth into the visible—lI call such condescension, beauty. And from no one do I want beauty so much as from thee, thou powerful one: let thy goodness be thy last self-conquest. All evil do I accredit to thee: therefore do I desire of thee the good. Verily, | have often laughed at the weaklings, who think themselves good because they have crippled paws! THE LAND OF CULTURE 129 The virtue of the pillar shalt thou strive after: more beauti- fui doth it ever become, and more graceful—but internally harder and more sustaining—the higher it riseth. Yea, thou subiime one, one day shalt thou also be beautiful, and hold up the mirror to thine own beauty. Then will thy soul thrill with divine desires; and there will be adoration even in thy vanity! For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero hath aban- doned it, then only approacheth it in dreams —the super- hero.— Thus spake Zarathustra. 36. The Land of Culture Too far did I fiy into the future: a horror seized upon me. And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary. Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and always faster. Thus did I come unto you: ye present-day men, and into the Jand of culture. For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good de- sire: verily, with longing in my heart did I come. But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed—I had yet to laugh! Never did mine eye see anything so motley- coloured! I laughed and laughed, while my foot stil: trembled, and my heart as well. “Here forsooth, is the home of all the paint- pots,’ —said I. 130 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs—so sat ye there to mine astonishment, ye present-day men! And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours, and repeated it! Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces! Who could—recognise you! Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters also pencilled over with new characters—thus have ye concealed yourselves well from all decipherers! And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that ye have reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps. All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your ges- tures. He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures, would just have enough left to scare the crows. Verily, I myself am the scared crow that once saw you naked, and without paint; and I flew away when the skeleton ogied at me. Rather would I be a day-labourer in the nether-world, and among the shades of the by-gone!—Fatter and fuller than ye, are forsooth the nether-worldlings! This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither endure you naked nor clothed, ye present-day men! All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your ‘‘reality.”’ For thus speak’ye: “Real ‘ate we wholly, and without faith and superstition’: thus do ye plume yourselves—alas! even without plumes! Indeed, how would ye be able to believe, ye divers-coloured THE LAND OF CULTURE 132 ones}—ye who are pictures of all that hath ever been believed! Perambulating refutations are ye, of belief itself, and a dis- location of all thought. Untrustworthy ones: thus do I caii you, ye real ones! All periods prate against one another in your spirits; and the dreams and pratings of all periods were even realer than your awakeness! Unfruitful are ye: therefore do ye lack belief. But he who had to create, had always his presaging dreams and astral premonitions-—and believed in believing!— Half-open doors are ye, at which grave-diggers wait. And this is your reality: ‘‘Everything deserveth to perish.” Alas, how ye stand there before me, ye unfruitful ones; how Jean your ribs! And many of you surely have had knowledge thereof. Many a one hath said: ‘There hath surely a God filched something from me secretly whilst I slept? Verily, enough to make a girl for himself therefrom! ‘Amazing is the poverty of my ribs!”’ thus hath spoken many a present-day man. Yea, ye are laughable unto me, ye present-day men! And especially when ye marvel at yourselves! And woe unto me if I could not laugh at your marvelling, and had to swallow all that is repugnant in your platters! As it is, however, I will make lighter of you, since I-have to carry what is heavy; and what matter if beetles and May-bugs also alight on my load! Verily, it shall not on that account become heavier to me! And not from you, ye present-day men, shall my grear weari- ness arise.— Ah, whither shall I now ascend with my longing! From all mouutains do I look out for fatherlands and motherlands. 132 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA But a home have I found nowhere: unsettled am I in all cities, and decamping at all gates. : Alien to me, and a mockery, are the present-day men, to whom of late my heart impelled me; and exiled am I from fatherlands and motherlands. : Thus do I love only my children’s land, the undiscovered in the remotest sea: for it do I bid my sails search and search. Unto my children will I make amends for being the child of my fathers: and unto all the future—for ts present-day!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 37. Immaculate Perception WHEN yester-eve the moon arose, then did I fancy it about to bear a sun: so broad and teeming did it lie on the horizon. ' But it was a liar with its pregnancy; and sooner will I believe in the man in the moon than in the woman. To be sure, little of a man is he also, that timid night- reveller. Verily, with a bad conscience doth he stalk over the roofs. For he is covetous and jealous, the monk in the moon; covetous of the earth, and all the joys of lovers. Nay, I like him not, that tom-cat on the roofs! Hateful unto me are all that slink around half-closed windows! Piously and silently doth he stalk along on the star-carpets: —but I like no light-treading human feet, on which not even a spur jingleth. Every honest one’s step speaketh; the cat however, stealeth IMMACULATE PERCEPTION 133 along over the ground. Lo! cat-like doth the moon come along, and dishonestly.— This parable speak I unto you sentimental dissemblers, unta you, the “‘pure discerners!”” You do I call—covetous ones! Also ye love the earth, and the earthly: I have divined you well!—but shame is in your love, and a bad conscience—ye are like the moon! To despise the earthly hath your spirit been persuaded, but not your bowels: these, however, are the strongest in you! And now is your spirit ashamed to be at the service of your bowels, and goeth in by-ways and lying ways to escape its own shame. ‘That would be the highest thing for me’’--sc saith your lying spirit unto itself —“‘to gaze upon life without desire, and not like the dog, with hanging-out tongue: To be happy in gazing: with dead will, free from the grip and greed of selfishness—cold and ashy-grey all over, but with intoxicated moon-eyes! That would be the dearest thing to me’’—thus doth the se- duced one seduce himself,—‘‘to love the earth as the moon Joveth it, and with the eye only to feel its beauty. And this do I call zmmaculate perception of all things: to want nothing else from them, but to be allowed to lie before them as a mirror with a hundred facets.” — Oh, ye sentimental dissemblers, ye covetous ones! Ye lack innocence in your desire: and now do ye defame desiring on that account! Verily, not as creators, as procreators, or as TET do ye love the earth! Where is innocence? Where there is will to procreation. And he who seeketh to create beyond nimself, hath for me the purest will. i34 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Where is beauty? Where I must will with my whole Will; where I will love and perish, that an image may not remain merely an image. Loving and perishing: these have rhymed from eternity. Will to love: that is to be ready also for death. Thus do I speak unto you cowards! But now doth your emasculated ogling profess to be “‘con- templation!” And that which can be examined with cowardly eyes 1s to be christened ‘‘beautiful!” Oh, ye violators of noble names! But it shall be your curse, ye immaculate ones, ye pure dis- cerners, that ye shall never bring forth, even though ye lie broad and teeming on the horizon! Verily, ye fill your mouth with noble words: and we are to believe that your heart overfloweth, ye cozeners? But my words are poor, contemptible, stammering words: gladly do I pick up what falleth from the table at your repasts. Yet still can I say therewith the truth—to dissemblers! Yea, my fish-bones, shells, and prickly leaves shall—tickle the noses of dissembiers! Bad air is always about you and your repasts: your lascivious thoughts, your lies, and secrets are indeed in the air! Dare only to believe in yourselves—in yourselves and in your inward parts! He who doth not believe in himself always lieth. A God’s mask have ye hung in front of you, ye ‘“‘pure ones’’: into a God’s mask hath your execrable coiling snake crawled. Verily ye deceive, ye “contemplative ones!” Even Zarathus- tra was once the dupe of your godlike exterior; he did not divine the serpent’s coil with which it was stuffed. A God’s soul, I once thought I saw playing in your games, SCHOLARS 135 ye pure discerners! No better arts did I once dream of than your arts! Serpents’ filth and evil odour, the distance concealed from me: and that a lizard’s craft prowled thereabouts lasciviously. But I came nigh unto you: then came to me the day,—and now cometh it to you,—at an end is the moon’s love affair! See there! Surprised and pale doth it stand—before the rosy dawn! For already she cometh, the glowing one,—“er love to the earth cometh! Innocence, and creative desire, is all solar love! See there, how she cometh impatiently over the sea! Do ye not feel the thirst and the hot breath of her love? At the sea would she suck, and drink its depths to her height: now riseth the desire of the sea with its thousand breasts. Kissed and sucked would it be by the thirst of the sun; vapour would it become, and height, and path of light, and light itself! Verily, like the sun do I love life, and all deep seas. And this meaneth to me knowledge: all that is deep shall ascend—to my height!— Thus speke Zarathustra. 38. Scholars WHEN I lay asleep, then did a sheep eat at the ivy-wreath on my head,—1t ate, and said thereby: “Zarathustra is no longer a schelar.”’ It said this, and wexa away clumsily and proudly. A child told it to me. 136 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA J like to lie here where the children play, beside the ruined wall, among thistles and red poppies. ‘A scholar am I still to the children, and also to the thistles and red poppies. Innocent are they, even in their wickedness. But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar: so willeth my lot -—blessings upon it! For this is the truth: I have departed from the house of the scholars, and the door have I also slammed behind me. Too long did my soul sit hungry at their table: not like them have I got the knack of investigating, as the knack of nut- cracking. Freedom do I love, and the air over fresh soil; rather would I sleep on ox-skins than on tiveir honours and dignities. I am too hot and scorched with mine own thought: often is it ready to take away my breath. Then have I to go into the ppen air, and away from all dusty rooms. _ - But they sit cool in the cool shade: they want in everything vo be merely spectators, and they avoid sitting where the sun burneth on the steps. Like those who stand in the street and gape at the passers- by: thus do they also wait, and gape at the thoughts which others have thought. Should one lay hold of them, then do they raise a dust like flour-sacks, and involuntarily: but who would divine that their dust came from corn, and from the yellow delight of the sum- roer fields? | When they give themselves out as wise, then do their pettv sayings and truths chill me: in their wisdom there is often an odour as if it came from the swamp; ana verily, I have even heard the frog croak in it! ee Clever are they—they have dexterous fingers: what aotn #7 SCHOLARS 137 simplicity pretend to beside their multiplicity! All threading and knitting and weaving do their fingers understand: thus do they make the hose of the spirit! Good ciockworks are they: only be careful to wind them up. properly! Then do they indicate the hour without mistake, and make a modest noise thereby. Like millstones do they work, and like pestles: throw only seed-corn unto them!—they know well how to grind corn small, and make white dust out of it. They keep a sharp eye on one another, and do not trust each other the best. Ingenious jn little artifices, they wait for those whose knowledge walketh on lame feet,—like spiders do they wait. I saw them always prepare their poison with precaution; and always did they put glass gloves on their fingers in doing so. They also know how to play with false dice; and so eagerly did I find them playing, that they perspired thereby. We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to my taste than their falsehoods and false dice. And when I lived with them, then did I live above them. Therefore did they take a dislike to me. They want to hear nothing of any one walking above their heads; and so they put wood and earth and rubbish betwixt me and their heads. Thus did they deafen the sound of my tread: and least have J hitherto been heard by the most learned. All mankind’s faults and weaknesses did they put betwixt themselves and me:—they call it “false ceiling” in their houses. But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts above their heads; 138 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA and even should I walk on mine own errors, still would I be above them and their heads. For men are not equal: so speaketh justice. And what I will, they may not will!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 39. Poets “SINCE I have known the body better’'’—said Zarathustra tc one of his disciples—‘‘the spirit hath only been to me sym- bolically spirit; and all the ‘imperishable’—that is also but a simile.” ‘‘So have I heard thee say once before,’ answered the dis- ciple, ‘‘and then thou addedst: “But the poets lie too much.’ Why didst thou say that the poets lie too much?” “Why?” said Zarathustra. ‘“Thou askest why? I do not belong to those who may be asked after their Why. Is my experience but of yesterday? It 1s long ago that I ex- perienced the reasons for mine opinions. Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my reasons with me? It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a bird flieth away. And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which is alien to me, and trembleth when I lay my hand upon it. But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too much?—But Zarathustra also is a poet. POETS 134 Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it?” The disciple answered: ‘I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled.— Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the beliet in myself. But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lie too much: he was right—we do lie too much. We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie. And which of us poets hath not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous hotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing hath there been done. And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women! And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one another in the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us. And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which choketh up for those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in their “‘wisdom.”’ This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricketh up his ears when lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learneth something of the things that are betwixt heaven and earth. And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always think that nature herself is in love with them: And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride them- selves, before all mortals! Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreamed! 140 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And especially above the heavens: for all gods are poet- symbolisations, poet-sophistications! Verily, ever are we drawn aloft—that is, to the realm of the clouds: on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them gods and Supermen:— Are not they light enough for those chairs!—all these gods and Supermen?— Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual! Ah, how I am weary of the poets! When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if it gazed into the far aistance. At last he sighed and drew breath.— I am of today and heretofore, said he thereupon; but some- thing is in me that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter. I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are they all unto me, and shallow seas. They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling did not reach to the bottom. Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these have as yet been their best contemplation. Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the jingle-jangling of their harps; what have they known hitherto of the fervour of tones!— They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that it may seem deep. And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!— Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch POETS I4i good fish; but always did I draw up the head of soine ancient God. Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may well originate from the sea. Certainly, one findeth pearls in them: thereby they are the more like hard molluscs. And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime. They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the peacock of peacocks? Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it spread out its tail; never doth it tire of its lace-fan of silver and silk. Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh to the sand with its soul, nigher still to the thicket, nighest, however, to the swamp. What 1s beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speak unto the poets. Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of vanity! Spectators seeketh the spirit of the poet—should they even be buffaloes! — But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it will become weary of itself. Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards themselves. Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the poets.— Thus spake Zarathustra. 142 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA go. Great Events THERE is an isle in the sea—not far from the Happy Isles of Zarathustra—on which a volcano ever smoketh; of which isle the people, and especially the old women amongst them, say that it is placed as a rock before the gate of the nether-world; but that through the volcano itself the narrow way leadeth downwards which conducteth to this gate. Now about the time that Zarathustra sojourned on the Happy Isles, it happened that a ship anchored at the isle on which standeth the smoking mountain, and the crew went ishore 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, how- ever, like a shadow, in the direction of the volcano), then did they recognise with the greatest surprise that it was Zarathus- tra; for they had all seen him before except the captain himself, and they loved him as the people love: in such wise that love and awe were combined in equal degree. ‘‘Behold!”’ said the old helmsman, “there goeth Zarathustra to hell!” About the same time that these sailors landed on the fire- isle, there was a rumour that Zarathustra had disappeared; and when his friends were asked about it, they said that he had gone on board a ship by night, without saying whither he was going. Thus there arose some uneasiness. After three days, how- ever, there came the story of the ship’s crew in addition to this GREAT EVENTS 143 uneasiness—and then did all the people say that the devil had taken Zarathustra. His disciples laughed, sure enough, at this talk; and one of them said even: ‘Sooner would I believe that Zarathustra hath taken the devil.” But at the bottom of their hearts they were all full of anxiety.and longing: so their joy was great when on the fifth day Zarathustra appeared amongst them. And this is the account of Zarathustra’s interview with the fire-dog: The earth, said he, hath a skin; and this skin hath diseases. One of these diseases, for example, is called ‘‘man.”’ And another of these diseases is called “‘the fire-dog’’: con- cerning 47m men have greatly deceived themselves, and let themselves be deceived. To fathom this mystery did I go o’er the sea; and I have seen the truth naked, verily! barefooted up to the neck. Now do I know how it is concerning the fire-dog; and likewise concerning all the spouting and subversive devils, of which not only old women are afraid. “Up with thee, fire-dog, out of thy depth!” cried I, “and confess how deep that depth is! Whence cometh that which thou snortest up? Thou drinkest copiously at the sea: that doth thine embit- tered eloquence betray! In sooth, for a dog of the depth, thou takest thy nourishment too much from the surface! At the most, I regard thee as the ventriloquist of the earth: and ever, when ] have heard subversive and spouting devils speak, I have found them like thee: embittered, mendacious, and shailow. Ye understand how to roar and obscure with ashes! Ye are ine best braggarts, and have sufficiently learned the art of making dregs boil. I44 DUUSe SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Where ye are, there must always be dregs at hand, and much that is spongy, hollow, and compressed: it wanteth to have freedom. ‘Freedom’ ye all roar most eagerly: but I have unlearned the belief in ‘great events,’ when there is much roaring and smoke about them. And believe me, friend Hullabaloo! The greatest events— are not our noisiest, but our stillest hours. Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the in- ventors of new values, doth the world revolve; znaudzbly it revolveth. And just own to it! Little had ever taken place when thy noise and smoke passed away. What, if a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in the mud! And this do I say also to the o’erthrowers of statues: It is certainly the greatest folly to throw salt into the sea, and statues into the mud. In the mud of your contempt lay the statue: but it 1s just its law, that out of contempt, its life and living beauty grow again! With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing by its suffering; and verily! it will yet thank you for o’erthrowing it, ye subverters! This counsel, however, do I counsel to kings and churches, and to all that is weak with age or virtue—let yourselves be o’erthrown! That ye may again come to life, and that virtue— may come to you!—” Thus spake I before the fire-dog: then did he interrupt me sullenly, and asked: “Church? What is that?” “Church?” answered I, ‘‘that is a kind of state, and indeed the most mendacious. But remain quiet, thou dissembling dog! Thou surely knowest thine own species best! Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog; like tnee doth GREAT EVENTS ¥45 it like to speak with smoke and roaring—to make believe, like thee, that it speaketh out of the heart of things. For it seeketh by all means to be the most important crea- ture on earth, the state; and people think it so.”’ When I had said this, the fire-dog acted as if mad with envy. “What!” cried he, ‘‘the most important creature on earth? And people think it so?” And so much vapour and terrible voices came out of his throat, that I thought he would choke with vexation and envy. At last he became calmer and his panting subsided; as soon, however, as he was quiet, J said laughingly: “Thou art angry, fire-dog: so I am in the right about thee! And that I may also maintain the right, hear the story of another fire-dog; he speaketh actually out of thesheart of the earth. Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain: so doth his heart desire. What are ashes and smoke and hot dregs to him! Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud; adverse is he to thy gargling and spewing and grips in the bowels! The gold, however, and the laughter—these doth he take out of the heart of the earth: for, that thou mayst know it,— the heart of the earth is of gold.” When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer endure to listen to me. Abashed did he draw in his tail, said ‘‘bow-wow!” in a cowed voice, and crept down into his cave.— Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however, hardly listened to him: so great was their eagerness to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the flying man. “What am I to think of it!” said Zarathustra. “Am I indeed a ghost? But it may have been my shadow. Ye have surely heard some- thing of the Wanderer and his Shadow? 446 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a tighter hold of it; otherwise it will spoil my reputation.” ‘And once more Zarathustra shook his head and wondered. “What am I to think of it!’’ said he once more. ‘Why did the ghost cry: ‘It is time! It 1s the highest time!’ For what is it then—the highest time?” — Thus spake Zarathustra. gi. The Soothsayer “-—AND I saw a great sadness come over mankind. The best turned weary of their works. A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: “All is empty, all is alike, all hath been!’ And from all hills there re-echoed: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all hath been!’ To be sure we have harvested: but why have all our fruits become rotten and brown? What was it fell last night from the evil moon? In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye hath singed yellow our fields and hearts. Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust like ashes:—yea, the fire itself have we made aweary. All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded. All the ground trieth to gape, but the depth will not swallow! ‘Alas! where is there stil: a sea in which one could be drowned?’ so soundeth our plaint—-across shallow swamps. THE SOOTHSAYER 147 Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; aow do we keep awake and live on—in sepulchres.” Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak; and the fore: boding touched his heart and transformed him. Sorrcwfully did he go about and wearily; and he became like unto those of whom the soothsayer had spoken.— Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while, and there cometh the long twilight. Alas, how shall I preserve my light through 1t! That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness! To remoter worlds shall it be a light, and also to remotest nights! Thus did ‘Zarathustra go about grieved in his heart, and for three days he did not take any meat or drink: he had no rest, and lost his speech. At last it came to pass that he fell into a deep sleep. His disciples, however, sat around him in long night-watches, and waited anxiously to see if he would awake, and speak again, and recover from his affliction. And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake when he awoke; his voice, however, came unto his disciples as from afar: Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my friends, and help me to divine its meaning! A riddle is it still unto me, this dream; the meaning 1s hidden in it and encaged, and doth not yet fly above it on free pinions. All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-watchman and grave-guardian had I become, aloft, in the lone mountain- fortress of Death. There did I guard his coffins: full stood the musty vaults of those trophies of victory. Out of glass coffins did vanquished life gaze upon me. The odour of dust-covered eternities did I breathe: sultry 148 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA and dust-covered lay my soul. And whe could have aired his soul there! Brightness of midnight was ever around me; lonesomeness cowered beside her; and as a third, death-rattle stillness, the worst ot my female friends. Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to open with them the most creaking of all gates. Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound through the long corridors when the leaves of the gate opened: ungra- ciously did this bird cry, anwillingly was it awakened. But more frightful even, and more heart-strangling was it, when it again became silent and still all around. and I alone sat in that malignant silence. Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time there still was: what do I know thereof! But at last there happened that which awoke me. Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like thunders, thrice did the vaults resound and howl again: then did I go to the gate. Aipa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself. But not a finger’s-breadth was it yet open: Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart: whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin. And in the roaring and whistling and whizzing, the coffin burst open, and spouted out a thousand peals of laughter. And a thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and mocked, and roared at me Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated me. And cried with horror as I ne’er cried before. THE SOOTHSAYER IAy But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came to myself.— Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then was silent: for as yet he knew not the interpretation thereof. But the dis- ciple whom he loved most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra’s hand, and said: ‘Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream, O Zara- thustra! Art thou not thyself the wind with shri! whistling, which bursteth open the gates of the fortress of Death? Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued malices and angel-caricatures of life? Verily, like a thousand peals of children’s laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres, laughing at those night-watch- men and grave-guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sints- ter keys. With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and prostrate them: fainting and recovering wilt thou demonstrate thy power ovet them. And when the long twilight cometh and the mortal weari- ness, even then wilt thou not disappear from our firmament, thou advocate of life! New stars hast thou made us see, and new nocturnal glories: verily, laughter itself hast thou spread out over us like a many- hued canopy. Now will children’s laughter ever from coffins flow; now will a strong wind ever come victoriously unto all mortal weari- ness: of this thou art thyself the pledge and the prophet: Verily, they themselves didst thou dream, thine enetnies: that was thy sorest dream). But as thou awokest from them and camest to thyself, so shall they awaken from themselves—and come unto thee!”’ Thus spake the disciple; and al! the others then thronged 1590 hi Uses! ARE ZARATH US TRA around Zarathustra, grasped him by the hands, and tried to persuade him to leave his bed and his sadness, and return unto them. Zarathustra, however, sat upright on his couch, with an absent look. Like one returning from long foreign sojourn did he look on his disciples, and examined their features; but still he knew them not. When, however, they raised him, and set him upon his feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye changed; he understood everything that had happened, stroked his beard, and said with a strong voice: “Well! this hath just its time; but see to it, my disciples, that we have a good repast, and without delay! Thus do I mean to make amends for bad dreams! The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink at my side: and verily, I will yet show him a sea in which ne can drown himself!’— Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long into the face of the disciple who had been the dream-interpreter, and shook his head.— 42. Redemption WHEN Zarathustra went one day over the great bridge, then did the cripples and beggars surround him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him: “Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn from thee, and acquire faith in thy teaching: but for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is still needful—thou must first of all convince us cripples! Here hast thou now a fine selection, and verily, an REDEMPTION 151 opportunity with more than one forelock! The blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run; and from him who hath tov much behind, couldst thou well, also, take away a little;— that, I think, would be the right method to make the cripples believe in Zarathustra!”’ Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him who so spake: When one taketh his hump from the hunchback, then doth one take from him his spirit—so do the people teach. And when one giveth the blind man eyes, then doth he see too many bad things on the earth: so that he curseth him who healed him. He, however, who maketh the lame man run, in- flicteth upon him the greatest injury; for haidly 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 Zara- thustra? It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since I have been amongst men, to see one person lacking an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg, and that others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the head. I see and have seen worse things, and divers things so hideous, that I should neither like to speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about some of them: namely, men who lack everything, except that they have too much of one thing—men who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big mouth, or a big belly, or something else big,—reversed cripples, I call such men. And when I came out of my solituae, 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 ac- 152 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA tually 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 fur- ther a smal! envious countenance, and also that a bloated soullet dangled at the stalk. The people told me, however, that the big ear was not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But I never believed in the people when they spake of great men —and I hold to my belief that it was a reversed cripple, who had too little of everything, and too much of one thing. When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn to his disciples in profound dejec- tion, and said: Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings! This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle- and outcher- ground. And when mine eye fleeth from the present to the bygone, it findeth ever the same: fragments and limbs and fearful chances ——but no men! The present and the bygone upon earth—ah! my friends— that is 7zy most unbearable trouble; and I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer of what is to come. A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and a bridge to » the future—and alas! also as it were a cripple on this bridge: all that 1s Zarathustra. And ye also asked yourselves often: “Who is Zarathustra to us? What shall he be called by us?”’ And like me, did ye pive yourselves questions for answers. Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror? Or an in- REDEMPTION 153 heritor? A harvest? Or a ploughshare? A physician? Or a healed one? Is he a poet? Or a genuine one? An emancipator? Or a sub- jugator? A good one? Or an evil one? I walk amongst men as the fragments of the future: that future which I contemplate. And it is all my poetisation and aspiration to compose and collect into unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful chance. And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not alsa the composer, and riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance! To redeem what is past, and to transform every “It was”’ into “Thus would IJ have it!””—that only do I call redemption! Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer called: thus have I taught you, my friends! But now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a prisoner. Willing emancipateth: but what is that called which still putteth the emancipator in chains? “It was’: thus 1s the Will's teeth-gnashing and lonesomest tribulation called. Impotent towards what hath been done—it is a malicious spectator of all that is past. Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot break time and time’s desire—that is the Will’s lonesomest tribulation. Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself devise in order to get free from its tribulation and mock at its prison? Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly delivereth itself also the imprisoned Will. That time doth not run backward—that is its animosity: “That which was’’: so is the stone which it cannot roll called. And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity and ill-humour, and taketh revenge on whatever doth not, like it, feel rage and iMl-humour. 154 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a torturer; and on all that is capable of suffering it taketh revenge, because it cannot go backward. This, yea, this alone is reven ge itself: the Will’s antipathy to time, and its ‘It was.” Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto all humanity, that this folly acquired spirit! The spirit of revenge: my friends, that hath hitherto been man’s best contemplation; and where there was suffering, it was claimed there was always penalty. “Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a good conscience. And because in the willer himself there is suffering, because he cannot will backwards—thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be penalty! And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last madness preached: “Everything perisheth, therefore every- thing deserveth to perish!”’ ‘‘And this itself is justice, the law of time—that he must devour his children:” thus did madness preach. ‘““Morally are things ordered according to justice and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from the flux of things and from the ‘existence’ of penalty?” Thus did madness preach. “Can there be deliverance when there 1s eternal justice? Alas, unrollable is the stone, ‘It was’: eternal must also be all penalties!”” Thus did madness preach. “No deed can be annihilated: how could it be undone by the penalty! This, this is what is eternal in the ‘existence’ of penalty, that existence also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt! Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing REDEMPTION 155 become non-Willing—:” but ye know, my brethren, this fabu- lous song of madness! Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: ‘““The Will is a creator.” All “It was’ is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance—until the creating Will saith thereto: ‘“But thus would I have it.”"— Until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus do I will tt! Thus shall I will it!”’ But did it ever speak thus? And when doth this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed from its own folly? Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing? And who hath taught it reconciliation with time, and some- thing higher than all reconciliation? Something higher than all reconciliation must the Will will which is the Will to Power—: but how doth that take place? Who hath taught it also to will backwards? —But at this point in his discourse it chanced that Zara- thustra suddenly paused, and looked like a person in the great- est alarm. With terror in his eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear- thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed, and said soothedly: “It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult—especially for a babbler.”’— Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the conversation and had covered his face during the time; but when he heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity, and said slowly: “But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto us than unto his disciples?”’ 156 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Zarathustra answered: ‘What is there to be wondered at! With hunchbacks one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!” “Very good,” said the hunchback; ‘‘and with pupils one may well tell tales out of school. But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto his pupils— than unto himself ?’’— 43. Manly Prudence NotT the height, it is the declivity that is terrible! The declivity, where the gaze shooteth downwards, and the hand graspeth zpwards. There doth the heart become giddy through its double will. Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart’s double will? This, this 1s my declivity and my danger, that my gaze shooteth towards the summit, and my hand would fain clutch and lean—on the depth! To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind myself to man, because I am pulled upwards to the Superman: for thither doth mine other will tend. And therefore do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not: that my hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness. I know not you men: this gloom and consolation is often spread around me. I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wisheth to deceive me? This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard against deceivers. MANLY PRUDENCE 157 Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how could :aan be an anchor to my ball! Too easily would I be pulled upwards and away! This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight. And he who would not languish amongst men, must learn to drink out of all glasses; and he who would keep clean amongst men, must know how to wash himself even with dirty water. And thus spake 1 often to myself for consolation: “Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappiness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as thy—happiness!”’ This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I am more forbearing to the vazn than to the proud. Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded, there there groweth up something better than pride. That life may be fair to behold, its game must be weil played; for that purpose, however, it needeth good actors. Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they play, and wish people to be fond of beholding them—all their spirit is in this wish. They represent themselves, they invent themselves; in their neighbourhood I like to look upon life—it cureth of mel- ancholy. Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because they are the physicians of my melancholy, and keep me attached to man as to a drama. And further, who conceiveth the full depth of the modesty of the vain man! I am favourable to him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty. : 158 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA From you would he learn his belief in himself; he feedeth upon your glances, he eateth praise out of your hands. Your lies doth he even believe when you lie favourably about him: for in its depths sigheth his heart: ‘““What am I?” And if that be the true virtue which is unconscious of itself —well, the vain man is unconscious of his modesty!— This is, however, my third manly prudence: I am not put out of conceit with the wicked by your timorousness. I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun hatcheth: tigers and palms and rattlesnakes. Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood of the warm sun, and much that is marvellous in the wicked. In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so very wise, so found I also human wickedness below the fame of it. And oft did I ask with a shake of the head: Why still rattle, ye rattlesnakes? Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And the warmest. south is still undiscovered by man. How many things are now called the worst wickedness, which are only twelve feet broad and three months long! Some day, however, will greater dragons come into the world. For that the Superman may not lack his dragon, the super- dragon that is worthy of him, there must still much warm sun glow on moist virgin forests! Out of your wild cats must tigers have evolved, and out of your poison-toads, crocodiles: for the good hunter shall have a good hunt! And verily, ye good and just! In you there is much to be laughed at, and especially your fear of what hath hitherto beer: called “the devil!”’ So alien are ye in your souls to what is great, that to you the Superman would be frightful in his goodness! THE STILLEST HOUR 159 And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee from the solar- glow of the wisdom in which the Supermza joyfully batheth his nakedness! Ye highest men who have come within my ken! this 1s my doubt of you, and my secret laughter: I suspect: ye would call my Superman—a devil! Ah, I became tired of those highest and best ones: from their “‘height’’ did I long to be up, out, and away to the Super- man! A horror came over me when I saw those best ones naked: then there grew for me the pinions to soar away into distant futures. Into more distant futures, into more southern souths than ever artist dreamed of: thither, where gods are ashamed of ali clothes! But disguised do I want to see you, ye neighbours and fellowmen, and well-attired and vain and estimable, as “‘the good and just;""— fi And disguised will I myself sit amongst you—that I may mistake you and myself: for that is my last manly prudence.— Thus spake Zarathustra. 44. The Stillest Hour WuaT hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go— alas, to go away from you! Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously this time doth the bear go back to his cave! 160 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth this?-—Ah, mine angry mistress wisheth it so; she spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to you? Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me my sizllest hour: that is the name of my terrible mistress. And thus did it happen—for everything must I tell you, that your heart may not harden against the suddenly departing one! Do ye know the terror of him who falleth asleep?— To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground giveth way under him, and the dream beginneth. This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour did the ground give way under me: the dream began. The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath—never did I hear such stillness around me, so that my heart was terrified. Then was there spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest tt, Zarathustra?’’— ' And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face: but I was silent. Then was there once more spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest it, Zarathustra, but thou dost not speak it!"—- And at last I answered, like one defiant: “Yea, I know it, but I will not speak it!” Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou wilt not, Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance!” — And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: “Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it! Exempt me only from this! Jt is beyond my power!” Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: ‘“What THE STILLEST HOUR 161 matter about thyself, Zarathustra! Speak thy word, and suc- cumb!” And J answered: “Ah, is it #zy word? Who am I? J await the worthier one; I am not worthy even to succumb by it.”’ Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about thyself? Thou art not yet humble enough for me, Humility hath the hardest skin.” — And I answered: “What hath not the skin of my humility endured! At the foot of my height do I dwell: how high are my summits, no one hath yet told me. But well do I know my valleys.” Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “O Zarathustra, he who hath to remove mountains removeth also valleys and plains.” — And I answered: “As yet hath my word not removed moun- tains, and what I have spoken hath not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but not yet have J attained unto them.” Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: ‘‘What knowest thou thereof! The dew falleth on the grass when the night is most silent.’’— And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in mine own path; and certainly did my feet then tremble. And thus did they speak unto me: Thou forgottest the path before, now dost thou also forget how to walk!” Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about their mockery! Thou art one who hast unlearned to obey: now shalt thou command! Knowest thou not who is most needed by all? He who com- mandeth great things. To execute great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to command great things. 162 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou hast the power, and thou wilt not rule.” — And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice for all command- ing.” Then was there again spoken unto me as a whispering: “It is the stillest words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps guide the world. O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus wilt thou command, and in commanding go fore- most.’’— And I answered: ‘‘I am ashamed.” Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou must yet become a child, and be without shame. The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast thou become young: but he who would become a child must surmount even his youth.”’—— And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, how- ever, did I say what I had said at first. “I will not.” Then did a laughing take place all around me. Alas, how that laughing lacerated my bowels and cut into my heart! And there was spoken unto me for the last time: ““O Zara- thustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not ripe for thy fruits! So must thou go again into solitude: for thou shalt yet be- come mellow.” — And again was there a laughing, and it fled: then did it be- come still around me, as with a double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground, and the sweat flowed from my limbs. —Now have ye heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends. But even this have ye heard from me, w/e is still the most teserved of men—and will be so! Ah, my friends! I should have something more to say unto THE osTILLEST HOUR 163 you! I should have something more to give unto you! Why do I not give it? Am I then a niggard?— When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these words, the violence of his pain, and a sense of the nearness of his de- parture 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. THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA THIRD PART “Ye look aloft when ye long for exaltation, and I look downward be- cause I am exalted. “Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted? ‘He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays and tragic realities.”-—ZARATHUSTRA, I., “Reading and Writing” (p. 56). 45. The Wanderer ‘FHEN, 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 Zara- thustra thus ascended the mountain, he thought on the way of his many solitary wanderings from youth onwards, and how many mountains and ridges and summits he had already climbed. ¢ I am a wanderer and mountain-climber, said he to his heart. I love not the plains, and it seemeth I cannot long sit still. And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience —a wandering will be therein, and a mountain-climbing: in the end one experienceth only oneself. The time is now past when accidents could befall me: and what could now fall to my lot which would not already be mine own! It returneth only, it cometh home to me at last—mine own Self, and such of it as hath been long abroad, and scattered among things and accidents. And one thing more do I know: I stand now before my last summit, and before that which hath been longest reserved for me. Ah, my hardest path must I ascend! Ah, I have begun my lonesomest wandering! 167 168 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA He, however, who is of my nature doth not avoid such an hour: the hour that saith unto him: Now only dost thou go the way to thy greatness! Summit and abyss—these are now comprised together! Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now hath it become thy last refuge, what was hitherto thy last danger! Thou goest the way to thy greatness: it must now be thy best courage that there is no longer any path behind thee! Thou goest the way to thy greatness: here shall no one steal after thee! Thy foot itself hath effaced the path behind thee, and over it standeth written: Impossibility. And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must thou learn to mount upon thine own head: how couldst thou mount up- ward otherwise? Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest in thee become the hardest. He who hath always much-indulged himself, sickeneth at last by his much-indulgence. Praises on what maketh hardy! I do not praise the land where butter and honey—flow! To learn to look away from oneself, is necessary in order to see many things:—this hardiness is needed by every mountain- climber. He, however, who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he ever see more of anything than its foreground! But thou, O Zarathustra, wouldst view the ground of every- thing, and its background: thus must thou mount even above thyself—up, upwards, until thou hast even thy stars under thee! Yea! To look down upon myself, and even upon my stars: that only would I call my swmmit, that hath remained for me as my /ast summit!— THE WANDERER 160 cf Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while ascending, com- forting 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 jong silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and starry. I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Now hath my last lonesomeness begun. Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre noc- turnal vexation! Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now go down! Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wandering: therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended: —Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest flood! So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready. Whence come the highest mountains? so did I once ask. ‘Then did I learn that they come cut of the sea. That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their summits. Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.— Thus spake Zarathustra on the ridge of the mountain wnete it was cold: when, however, he came into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stood alone amongst the cliffs, then had he pe- come weary on his way, and eagerer than ever before. Everything as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and strangely doth its eye gaze upon me. But it breatheth warmly—lI feel it. And I feel also that it dreameth. It tosseth about dreamily on hard pillows. Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evil expectations? 17O THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myself even for thy sake. Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed. would I free thee from evil dreams!— And while Zarathustra thus spake, he laughed at himself with melancholy and bitterness. What! Zarathustra, said he, wilt thou even sing consolation to the sea? Ah, thou amiable fool, Zarathustra, thou too-blindly con- fiding one! But thus hast thou ever been: ever hast thou ap- proached confidently all that is terrible. Every monster wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on its paw:—and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it. Love is the danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, if zt only live! Laughable, verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!— Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed thereby a second time. ‘Then, however, he thought of his abandoned friends—and as if he had done them a wrong with his thoughts, he upbraided himself because of his thoughts. And forthwith it came to pass that the laugher wept—with anger and longing wept Zara- thustra bitterly. THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA eB | 46. The Vision and the Enigma 1 WHEN it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board the ship—for a man who came from the Happy Isles had gone on board along with him,—there was great curiosity and expectation. But Zarathustra kept silent for two days, and was cold and deaf with sadness; so that he neither answered looks nor questions. On the evening of the second day, how- ever, 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 fur- ther. Zarathustra, however, was fond of all those who make distant voyages, and dislike to live without danger. And be- hold! when listening, his own tongue was at last loosened, and the ice of his heart broke. Then did he begin to speak thus: To you, the daring venturers and adventurers, and whoever hath embarked with cunning sails upon frightful seas,— To you the enigma-intoxicated, the twilight-enjoyers, whose souls are allured by flutes to every treacherous gulf: —For ye dislike to grope at a thread with cowardly hand: and where ye can divine, there do ye hate to calculate— To you only do I tell the enigma that I saw—the vision of the lonesomest one.— Gloomily walked I lately in corpse-coloured twilight — gloomily and sternly, with -ompressed lips. Not only one sun had set for me. A path which ascended daringly among boulders, an evil, lonesome path, which neither herb nor shrub any longer 172 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA cheered, a mountain-path, crunched under the daring of my foot. : Mutely marching over the scornful clinking of pebbles, trampling the stone that let it slip: thus did my foot force its way upwards. Upwards:—in spite of the spirit that drew it downwards, towards the abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and arch- enemy. Upwards:—altnough it sat upon me, half-dwarf, half-mole; paralysed, paralysing; dripping lead in mine ear, and thoughts like drops of lead into my brain. “O Zarathustra,” it whispered scornfully, syllable by syllable, “thou stone of wisdom! Thou threwest thyself high, but every thrown stone must—fall! O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom, thou sling-stone, thou star-destroyer! Thyself threwest thou so high,—but every thrown stone—must fall! Condemned of thyself, and to thine own stoning: O Zara- thustra, far indeed threwest thou thy stone—but upon ¢hyself will it recoil!” Then was the dwarf silent; and it lasted long. The silence, however, oppressed me; and to be thus in pairs, one is verily lonesomer than when alone! I ascended, I ascended, I dreamt, I thought,—but everything ovpressed me. A sick one did I resemble, whom bad torture wearieth, and a worse dream reawakeneth out of his first sleep.— But there is something in me which I call courage: it hath hitherto slain for me every dejection. This courage at last bade me stand still and say: ‘““Dwarf! Thou! Or I!”’— For courage is the best slayer,—courage which attacketh: for in every attack there is sound of triumph. THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA 173 Man, however, is the most courageous animal: thereby hath he overcome every animal. With sound of triumph hath he overcome every pain; human pain, however, is the sorest pain. Courage slayeth also giddiness at abysses: and where doth man not stand at abysses! Is not seeing itseif—seeing abysses? Courage is the best slayer: courage slayeth also fellow-suffer- ing. Fellow-suffering, however, is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man looketh into life, so deeply also doth he look into suf- fering. Courage, however, is the best slayer, courage which at- tacketh: it slayeth even death itself; for it saith: “Was that life? Well! Once more!” In such speech, however, there is much sound of triumph. He who hath ears to hear, let him hear.— 2 “Halt, dwarf!” said I. ‘Either 1—or thou! I, however, am the stronger of the two:—thou knowest not mine abysmal thought! Jt—couldst thou not endure!” Then happened that which made me lighter: for the dwarf sprang from my shoulder, the prying sprite! And it squatted on a stone in front of me. There was however a gateway just where we halted. “Look at this gateway! Dwarf!” I continued, “it hath two faces. Two roads come together here: these hath no one yet gone to the end of. This long lane backwards: it continueth for an eternity. And that long lane forward—that is another eternity. They are antithetical to one another, these roads; they directly abut on one another:—-and it is here, at this gateway 174 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA that they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: “This Moment.’ But should one follow them further—and ever further and further on, thinkest thou, dwarf, that these roads would be eternally antithetical?’— “Everything straight lieth,’ murmured the dwarf, con- temptuously. ‘All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle.” ‘Thou spirit of gravity!’’ said I wrathfully, ‘‘do not take it too lightly! Or I shall let thee squat where thou squattest, Haltfoot,—and I carried thee high!” “Observe,” continued I, ‘“This Moment! From the gate- way, This Moment, there runneth a long eternal lane back- wards: behind us lieth an eternity. Must not whatever can run its course of all things, have already run along that lane? Must not whatever caz happen of all things have already happened, resulted, and gone by? And if everything has already existed, what thinkest thou, dwarf, of This Moment? Must not this gateway also—have already existed? And are not all things closely bound together in such wise that This Moment draweth all coming ures after it? Conse: guently—itself also? For whatever can run its course of all things, also in this long lane outward—must it once more run!— And this slow spider which creepeth in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself, and thou and I in this gateway whisper- ing together, whispering of eternal things—must we not all have already existed? —And must we not return and run in that other lane out before us, that long weird lane—must we not eternally re- turn?’ ’— Thus did I speak, and always more softly: for I was afraid THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA 175 of mine own thoughts, and arrear-thoughts. Then, suddenly did I hear a dog ows near me. Had I ever heard a dog howl thus? My thoughts ran back. Yes! When I was a child, in my most distant childhood: —Then did I hear a dog howl thus. And saw it also, with hair bristling, its head upwards, trembling in the stillest mid- night, when even dogs believe in ghosts: —So that it excited my commiseration. For just then went the full moon, silent as death, over the house; just then did it stand still, a glowing globe—at rest on the flat roof, as 1f on some one’s property :— Thereby had the dog been terrified: for dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And when I again heard such howling, then did it excite my commiseration once more. Where was now the dwarf? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the whispering? Had I dreamt? Had I awakened? "Iwixt rugged rocks did I suddenly stand alone, dreary in the dreariest moonlight. But there lay a man! And there! The dog leaping, bristling, whining—now did it see me coming—then did it how] again, then did it cry:—had I ever heard a dog cry so for help? And verily, what I saw, the like had I never seen. A young shepherd did I see, writhing, choking, quivering, with dis- torted countenance, and with a heavy black serpent hanging out of his mouth. Had I ever seen so much loathing and pale horror on one countenance? He had perhaps gone to sleep? Then had the serpent crawled into his throat—there had it bitten itself fast. My hand pulled at the serpent, and pulled:—-in vain! |] failed to pull the serpent out of his throat. Then there cried out of me: ‘Bite! Bite! Its head off! Bite!”’—-so cried it out of me; my horror, my 176 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA hatred, my loathing, my pity, all my good and my bad cried with one vcice out of me.— Ye' daring ones around me! Ye venturers and adventurers, and whoever of you have embarked with cunning sails on unex- plored seas: Ye enigma-enjoyers! Solve unto me the enigma that I then beheld, interpret unto me the vision of the lonesomest one! For it was a vision and a foresight:—what did I then behold in parable? And who is it that must come some day? Who 1s the shepherd into whose throat the serpent thus crawled? Who is the man into whose throat all the heaviest and blackest will thus crawl? —The shepherd however bit as my cry had admonished him; he bit with a strong bite! Far away did he spit the head of the serpent:—and sprang up.— No longer shepherd, no longer man—a transfigured being, a light-surrounded being, that /azghed! Never on earth laughed a man as 4e laughed! O my brethren, I heard a laughter which was no human Jaughter,—and now gnaweth a thirst at me, a longing that is never allayed. My longing for that laughter gnaweth at me: oh, how can I still endure to live! And how could I enaure to die at present!— Thus spake Zarathustra. INVOLUNTARY BLISS 17} 47. Involuntary Bliss WITH such enigmas and bitterness in his heart did Zarathustra sail o’er the sea. When, however, he was four day-journeys from the Happy Isles and from his friends, then had he sur- mounted all his pain:—triumphantly and with firm foot did he again accept his fate. And then talked Zarathustra in this wise to his exulting conscience: Alone am I again, and like to be so, alone with the pure heaven, and the open sea; and again is the afternoon around me. On an afternoon did I find my friends for the first time; on an afternoon, also, did I find them a second time:—at the hour when all light becometh stiller. For whatever happiness is still on its way ‘twixt heaven and earth, now seeketh for lodging a luminous soul: with hap pr- ness hath all light now become stiller. O afternoon of my life! Once did my happiness aiso descend to the valley that it might seek a lodging: then did it find those open hospitable souls. O afternoon of my life! What did I not surrender that I might have one thing: this living plantation of my thoughts, and this dawn of my highest hope! Companions did the creating one once seek, and children of his hope: and lo, it turned out that he could not fina them, except he himself should first create them. Thus am I in the midst of my work, to my children going, and from them returning: for the sake of his children must Zarathustra perfect himself. 178 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 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: s0 have I found it. Still are my children verdant in their first spring, standing nigh one another, and shaken in common by the winds, the trees of my garden and of my best soil. And verily, where such trees stand beside one another, there are Happy Isles! But one day will I take them up, and put each by itself alone: that it may learn lonesomeness and defiance and prudence. Gnarled and crooked and with flexible hardness shall it then stand by the sea, a living lighthouse of unconquerable life. Yonder where the storms rush down into the sea, and the snout of the mountain drinketh water, shall each on a time have his day and night watches, for 47s testing and recognition. Recognised and tested shall each be, to see if he be of my type and lineage:—if he be master of a long will, silent even when he speaketh, and giving in such wise that he taketh in giving :— —So that he may one day become my companion, a fellow- creator and fellow-enjoyer with Zarathustra:—such a one as writeth my will on my tables, for the fuller perfection of all things. And for his sake and for those like him, must I perfect myself: therefore do I now avoid my happiness, and present myself to every misfortune—for mzy final testing and recogni- tion. , And veriiy, it were time that I went away; and the wan- derer’s shadow and the longest tedium and the stillest hour— have all said unto me: ‘It is the highest time!” The word blew to me through the keyhole and said “Come!” The door sprang subtly open unto me, and said “Go!” INVOLUNTARY BLISS 179 But I lay enchained to my love for my children: desire spread this snare for me—the desire for love—that I should become the prey of my children, and lose myself in them. Desiring—that is now for me to have lost myself. I possess you, my children! In this possessing shall everything be assur- ance and nothing desire. But brooding lay the sun of my love upon me, in his own juice stewed Zarathustra,—then did shadows and doubts fly past me. For frost and winter I now longed: “Oh, that frost and winter would again make me crack and crunch!” sighed I: —then arose icy mist out of me. My past burst its tomb, many pains buried alike woke up:— fully slept had they merely, concealed 1n corpse-clothes. So called everything unto me in signs: “It 1s time!’ But I— heard not, until at last mine abyss moved, and my thought bit me. Ah, abysmal thought, which art my thought! When shall |] find strength to hear thee burrowing, and no longer tremble? To my very throat throbbeth my heart when I hear them burrowing! Thy muteness even is like to strangle me, thou abysmal mute one! As yet have I never ventured to call thee zp, it hath been enough that I—have carried thee about with me! As yet have I not been strong enough for my final lion-wantonness and playfulness. Sufficiently formidable unto me hath thy weight ever been: but one day shall I yet find the strength and the lion’s voice which will call thee up! When I shall have surmounted myself therein, then will I surmount myself also in that which is greater; and a victory shall be the seal of my perfection!— 180 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Meanwhile do I sail along on uncertain seas; chance flat- tereth me, smooth-tongued chance; forward and backward do i gaze—, stil see I no end. As yet hath the hour of my final struggle not come to me— or doth it come to me perhaps just now? Verily, with insidious beauty do sea and life gaze upon me round about: O afternoon of my life! O happiness before eventide! O haven upon high seas! © peace in uncertainty! How I distrust all of you! Verily, distrustful am I of your insidious beauty! Like the lover am I, who distrusteth too sleek smiling. As he pusheth the best-beloved before him—tender even in severity, the jealous one—, so do I push this blissful hour be- fore me. Away with thee, thou blissful hour! With thee hath there come to me an involuntary bliss! Ready for my severest pain do I here stand:—at the wrong time hast thou come! Away with thee, thou blissful hour! Rather harbour there— with my children! Hasten! and bless them before eventide with my happiness! There, already approacheth eventide: the sun sinketh. Away—my happiness!— Thus spake Zarathustra. And he waited for his misfortune the whole night; but he waited in vain. The night remained clear and calm, and happiness itself came nigher and nigher unto him. Towards morning, however, Zarathustra laughed to his heart, and said mockingly: ‘‘Happiness runneth after me. That is because I do not run after women. Happiness, however, is a woman.’ BRFORE SUNRISE r81 48. Before Sunrise \y HEAVEN above me, thou pure, thou deep heaven! Thou abyss of light! Gazing on thee, I tremble with divine desires. Up to thy height to toss myself—that is my depth! In thy purity to hide myself—that 1s mz7ne innocence! The God veileth his beauty: thus hidest thou thy stars. Thou speakest not: thus proclaimest thou thy wisdom unto me. Mute o’er the raging sea hast thou risen for me to-day; thy love and thy modesty make a revelation unto my raging soul. In that thou camest unto me beautiful, veiled in thy beauty, in that thou spakest unto me mutely, obvious in thy wisdom: Oh, how could I fail to divine all the modesty of thy soul! Before the sun didst thou come unto me—the lonesomest one. We have been friends from the beginning: to us are grief, gruesomeness, and ground common; even the sun is common to vs. We do not speak to each other, because we know too much—: we keep silent to each other, we smile our knowl- edge to each other. Art thou not the light of my fire? Hast thou not the sister- soul of mine insight? Together did we learn everything; together did we iearn to ascend beyond ourselves to ourselves, and to smile uncloud- edly:— —Uncloudedly to smile down out of luminous eyes and out of miles of distance, when under us constraint and purpose and guilt stream like rain. And wandered I alone, for what did my soul hunger by night and in labyrinthine paths? And climbed I mountains, whom did I ever seek, if not thee, upon mountains? (82 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And all my wandering and mountain-climbing: a necessity was it merely, and a makeshift of the unhandy one:—to fly only, wanteth mine entire will, to fly into thee! And what have I hated more than passing clouds, and what- ever tainteth thee? And mine own hatred have I even hated, because it tainted thee! The passing clouds I detest—those stealthy cats of prey: they take from thee and me what is common to us—the vast unbounded Yea- and Amen-saying. These mediators and mixers we detest—the passing clouds: those half-and-half ones, that have neither learned to bless nor to curse from the heart. Rather will I sit in a tub under a closed heaven, rather wil] I sit in the abyss without heaven, than see thee, thou luminous heaven, tainted with passing clouds! And oft have I longed to pin them fast with the jagged gold-wires of lightning, that I might, like the thunder, beat the drum upon their kettle-bellies:— —An angry drummer, because they rob me of thy Yea and Amen!—thou heaven above me, thou pure, thou luminous heaven! Thou abyss of light!—because they rob thee of my Yea and Amen. For rather will I have noise and thunders and tempest-blasts, than this discreet, doubting cat-repose; and also amongst men do I hate most of all the soft-treaders, and half-and-half ones, and the doubting, hesitating, passing clouds. And “he who cannot bless shall /earn to curse!’’—this clear teaching dropt unto me from the clear heaven; this star standeth in my heaven even in dark nights. I, however, am a blesser and a Yea-sayer, if thou be but around me, thou pure, thou luminous heaven! Thou abyss of BEFORE SUNRISE 183 iight!—into all abysses doI then carry my beneficent Yea-saying. A blesser have I become and a Yea-sayer: and therefore strove I long and was a striver, that I might one day get my hands free for blessing. This, however, is my blessing: to stand above everything as its own heaven, its round roof, its azure bell and eternal security: and blessed is he who thus blesseth! For all things are baptized at the font of eternity, and be- yond good and evil; good and evil themselves, however, are but fugitive shadows and damp afflictions and passing clouds. Verily, it is a blessing and not a blasphemy when I teach that ‘‘above all things there standeth the heaven of chance, the heaven of innocence, the heaven of hazard, the heaven of wan- tonness.”’ “Of Hazard’’—that is the oldest nobility in the world; that; gave I back to all things; I emancipated them from he under purpose. This freedom and celestial serenity did I put like an azure bell above all things, when I taught that over them and through them, no “eternal Will’’—willeth. This wantonness and folly did I put in place of that Will, when I taught that “In everything there is one thing impossible —rationality!”’ A little reason, to be sure, a germ of wisdom scattered from star to star—this leaven is mixed in all things: for the sake of folly, wisdom is mixed in all things! A little wisdom is indeed possible; but this blessed security have I found in all things, that they prefer—to dance on the feet of chance. O heaven above me! thou pure, thou lofty heaven! This is now thy purity unto me, that there is no eternal reason-spider and reason-cobweb:— 184 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA —That thou art to me a dancing-floor for divine chances. that thou art to mea table of the Gods, for divine dice and dice- players!— But thou blushest? Have I spoken unspeakable things? Have T abused, when I meant to bless thee? Or is it the shame of being two of us that maketh thee blush! —Dost thou bid me go and be silent, because now—day cometh? The world is deep:—and deeper than e’er the day could read. Not everything may be uttered in presence of day. But day cometh: so let us part! O heaven above me, thou modest one! thou glowing one! O thou, my happiness before sunrise! The day cometh: so let us part!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 49. Lhe Bedwarfing Virtue I WHEN Zarathustra was again on the continent, he did not ge 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 piace 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: THE BEDWARFING ViRTUE 185 ““What do these houses mean? Verily, ne great soul put them up as its simile! Did perhaps a silly child take them out of its toy-box? Would that another child put them again into the box! And these rooms and chambers—can men go out and in there? They seem to be made for silk dolls; or for dainty-eaters, who perhaps let others eat with them.” And Zarathustra stood still and meditated. At last he said sorrowfully: “There hath everything become smaller! Evetywhere do I see lower doorways: he who is of my type can still go therethrough, but—he must stoop! Oh, when shall I arrive again at my home, where I shall no Jonger have to stoop—shall no longer have to stoop before the small ones!’’—And Zarathustra sighed, and yazed into the distance.— The same day, however, he gave his discourse on the be dwarfing virtue. 2 I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open: they do not forgive me for not envying their virtues. They bite at me, because I say unto them that for small people, small virtues are necessary—and because it is hard fot me to understand that small people are necessary! Here am I still like a cock in a strange farm-yard, at which even the hens peck: but on that account I am not unfriendly to the hens. I am courteous towards them, as towards all small annoy- ances; to de prickly towards what is small, seemeth to me wisdom for hedgehogs. 186 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA They all speak of me when they sit around their fire in the evening—they speak of me, but no one thinketh-—of me! This is the new stillness which I have experienced: their noise around me spreadeth a mantle over my thoughts. They shout to one another: ‘“What is this gioomy cloud about to do to us? Let us see that it doth not bring a plague upon us!” And recently did a woman seize upon her child that was coming unto me: ‘Take the children away,” cried she, ‘‘such eyes scorch children’s souls.”’ They cough when I speak: they think coughing an objec- tion to strong winds—they divine nothing of the boisterous- ness of my happiness! “We have not yet time for Zarathustra’’—-so they object; but what matter about a time that “hath no time” for Zarathustra? And if they should altogether praise me, how could I go to sleep on thezr praise? A girdle of spines is their praise unto me: it scratcheth me even when I take it off. And this also did I learn among them: the praiser doeth as if he gave back; in trath, however, he wanteth more to be given him! Ask my foot if their lauding and luring strains please it! Verily, to such measure and ticktack, it liketh neither to dance nor to stand still. To small virtues would they fain jure and Jaud me; to the ticktack of small happiness would they fain persuade my foot. I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open; they have become smaller, and ever become smaller:—the reason thereof is their doctrine of happiness and virtue. For they are moderate also in virtue,—because they want comfort. With comfort, however, moderate virtue only is oom- patible THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE 18° To be sure, they also learn in their way to stride on and stride forward: that, I call their bobbling.—Thereby they betome a hindrance to all who are in. haste. And many of them go forward, and look backwards thereby, with stiffened necks: those do I like to run up against. Foot and eye shall not lie, nor give the lie to each other. Bul there is much lying among small people. Some of them wz#//], but most of them are willed. Some of them are genuine, but most of them are bad actors. There are actors without knowing it amongst them, and actors without intending it—, the genuine ones are always rare, especially the genuine actors. Of man there is little here: therefore do their women mascu- linise themselves. For only he who is man encugh, will—sat'e the woman in woman. And this nypocrisy found I worst amongst them, that even those who command feign the virtues of those who serve. “T serve, thou servest, we serve’’—so chanteth here even the hypocrisy of the rulers—and alas! if the first lord be only the first servant! Ah, even upon their hypocrisy did mine eyes’ curiosity alight; and well did I divine all their fly-happiness, and their buzzing around sunny window-panes. So much kindness, so much weakness do I see. So much ‘us- tice and pity, so much weakness. Round, fair, and considerate are they to one another, as grains of sand are round, fair, and considerate to grains of sand. Modestly to embrace a small happiness— that do they call “submission’’! and at the same time they peer modestly after 1 new small happiness. In their hearts they want simply one thing must of all: that 188 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA no one hurt them. Thus do they anticipate every one’s wishes and do well unto every one. That, however, is cowardice, thougl. 1t be called “virtue.” — And when they chance to speak harshly, those small people, then do J hear therein only their hoarseness—every draught ot air maketh them hoarse. Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues have shrewd fingers. But they lack fists: their fingers do not know how to creep behind fists. Virtue for them is what maketh modest atid tame: there- with have they made the wolf a dog, and man himself man’s best domestic animal. “We set our chair in the mzdst’’—-so saith their smirking unto me—‘‘and as far from dying gladiators as from satisfied swine,” That, however, is—mediocrity, though it be called modera- tion.— o I pass through this people and let fall many words: but they know neither how to take nor how to retain them. They wonder why I came not to revile venery and vice: and verily, I came not to warn against pickpockets either! They wonder why I am not ready to abet and whet theit wisdom: as if they had not yet enough of wiseacres, whose voices grate on mine ear like slate-pencils! And when J call out: “Curse all the cowardly devils in you, that would fain whimper and fold the hands and adore’’— then do they thout: ‘‘Zarathustra is godless.” THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE 18s And especially do their teachers of submission shout this;— but precisely in their ears do I love to cry: “Yea! I am Zara- thustra, the godless!” Those teachers of submission! Wherever there is aughi puny, or sickly, or scabby, there do they creep like lice; anc only my disgust preventeth me from cracking them. Well! This is my sermon for ¢hezr ears: I am Zarathustr the godless, who saith: ““Who is more godiess than I, that ] may enjoy his teaching?” I am Zarathustra the godless: where do I find mine equal? And all those are mine equals who give unto themselves their Will, and divest themselves of all submission. J am Zarathustra the godless! I cook every chance in my pot. And only when it hath been quite cooked do I welcome it as my food. And verily, many a chance came imperiously unto me: but still more imperiously did my W7// speak unto it—then did it lie imploringly upon its knees— —Imploring that it might find home and heart with me, and saying flatteringly: ‘See, O Zarathustra, how friend only cometh unto friend!”’— But why talk I, when no one hath mzme ears! And so will I shout it out unto all the winds: Ye ever become smaller, ye small people! Ye crumbie away, ye comtortable ones! Ye will yet perish— —By your many small virtues, by your many smal] omis- sions, and by your many small submissions! Too tender, too vielding: so is your soil! But for a tree te become great, it seeketh to twine hard roots around hard rocks! Also what ye omit weaveth at the web of all the human future; even your naught is a cobweb, and a spider that liveth on the blood of the future. [90 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And when ye take, then is it like stealing, ye small virtuous ones; but even among knaves honour saith that “one shall only steal when one cannot rob.” “It giveth itself’’—that is also a doctrine of submission. But I say unto you, ye comfortable ones, that zt taketh to itself, and will ever take more and more from you! Ah, that ye would renounce all 4a/f-willing, and would de- cide for idleness as ye decide for action! Ah, that ye understood my word: “Do ever what ye wili—. but first be such as can wall. Love ever your neighbour as yourselves—but first be such as love themselves— —Such as love with great love, such as love with great con- tempt!” Thus speaketh Zarathustra the godless.— But why talk I, when no one hath mzne ears! It is still an hour too early for me here. Mine own forerunner am I among this people, mine own cockcrow in dark lanes. But their hour cometh! And there cometh also mine! Hourly do they become smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller.—poor herbs! poor earth! And soon shall they stand before me ee dry grass and prairie, and verily, weary of themselves—and panting for fire, more than for water! O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noontide! -—Running fires will I one day make of them, and heralds with flaming tongues:— —Herald shall they one day with flaming tongues: It cometh, it is nigh, the great noontide! Thus spake Zarathustra ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT TQI 50. On the Olive-Mount WINTER. a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly hand-shaking. I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I run away from him; and when one runneth weil, then one escapeth him! With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm—to the sunny corner of mine olive-mount. There do I laugh at my stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he cleareth my house of flies, and quieteth many little noises. For he suffereth it not if a gnat wanteth to buzz, or even two of them; also the lanes maketh he lonesome, so that the moonlight is afraid there at night. A hard guest is he,—but I honour him, and do not wor ship, like the tenderlings, the pot-bellied fire-idol. Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration!— so willeth my nature. And especially have I a grudge against ali ardent, steaming, steamy fire-idols. Him whom I love, I love better in winter than in summer; better do I now mock at mine enemies, and more heartily, when winter sitteth in my house. Heartily, verily, even when I creep into bed—-: there, stili laugheth and wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my decep- tive dream \augheth. I, a—creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the power- ful: and if ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore ans I glad even in my winter-bed. 192 THUS SPAKE. ZARATHUSTRA A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich one, fo1 { am jeal- ous of my poverty. And in winter she is most faithful unto me. With a wickedness do I begin every day: I mock at the winter with a cold bath: on that account grumbleth my stern house-mate. Also do I like to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let the heavens emerge from ashy-grey twilight. For especially wicked am I in the morning: at the early hour when the pail rattleth at the well, and horses neigh warmly in grey lanes: — Impatiently do I then wait, that the clear sky may finally dawn for me, the snow-bearded winter-sky, the hoary one, the white-head,— —The winter-sky, the silent winter-sky, which often stifleth even its sun! Did I perhaps learn from it the long clear silence? Or did it learn it from me? Or hath each of us devised it himself? Of all good things the origin is a thousandfold,—all good roguish things spring into existence for joy: how could they always do so—for once only! A good roguish thing is also the long silence, and to look, like the winter-sky, out of a clear, round-eyed countenance:— —Like it to stifle one’s sun, and one’s inflexible solar will: verily, this art and this winter-roguishness have I learned we/l/! My best-loved wickedness and art is it, that my silence hath learned not to betray itself by silence. Clattering with diction and dice, I outwit the solemn assist- ants: all those stern watchers, shall my will and purpose elude That no one might see down into my depth and into mine ultimate will—for that purpose did I devise the long clear silence. ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT 193 Mauy a shrewd one did I find: he veiled his countenance and made his water muddy, that no one might s see therethrough and thereunder. — But precisely unto him came the shrewder distrusters and nut-crackers: piccisey from him did they fish his best-con- cealed fish! But the clear, the mee the transparent—these are for me the wisest silent ones: in them, so profound is the depth that even the clearest water doth not—betray it.— Thou snow-bearded, silent, winter-sky, thou round- ea whitehead above me! Oh, thou heavenly simile of my soul and its wantonness! And must I not conceal myself like one who hath swallowed gold—lest my soul should be ripped up? Mzst I not wear stilts, that they may overlook my long legs —-all those enviers and injurers around me? Those dingy, fire-warmed, used-up, green-tinted, ill, natured souls—how could their envy endure my happiness! Thus do I show them only the ice and winter of my peaks— and vot that my mountain windeth all the solar girdles around at! They hear only the whistling of my winter-storms: and know not that I also travel over warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south-winds. They commiserate also my accidents and chances:—but my word saith: “Suffer the chance to come unto me: innocent is it as 2 little child!”’ How could they endure my happiness, if I did not put around it accidents, and winter-privations, and bear-skin caps, and enmantling snowflakes! —If I did not myself commiserate their pity, the pity of those enviers and injurers! 194 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA —If I did not myself sigh before them, and chatter with cold, and patiently /et myself be swathed in their pity! This is the wise waggish-will and good-will of my soul, that it concealeth not its winters and glacial storms; it concealeth not its chilblains either. To one man, lonesomeness is the flight of the sick one; to another, it is the flight from the sick ones. Let them ear me chattering and sighing with winter-cold, all those poor squinting knaves around me! With such sighing and chattering do I flee from their heated rooms. Let them sympathise with me and sigh with me on account of my chilblains: ‘At the ice of knowledge will he yet freeze to death!’’so they mourn. Meanwhile do I run with warm feet hither and thither on mine olive-mount: in the sunny corner of mine olive-mount do I sing, and mock at all pity.— Thus sang Zarathustra. 51. On Passing-By THUs slowly wandering through many peoples and divers cities, did Zarathustra return by round-about roads to his mountains and his cave. And behold, thereby came he un- awares 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 some- thing of the expression and modulation of language, and per- ON PASSING-BY 195 haps liked also to borrow from the store of his wisdom. Ana the fool talked thus to Zarathustra: O Zarathustra, here is the great city: here hast thou nothing to seek and everything to lose. Why wouldst thou wade through this mire? Have pity upon thy foot! Spit rather on the gate of the city, and—turn back! Here is the hell for anchorites’ thoughts: here are great thoughts seethed alive and boiled small. Here do all great sentiments decay: here may only rattle- boned sensations rattle! Smellest thou not already the shambles and cookshops of the spirit? Steameth not this city with the fumes of slaughtered spirit? Seest thou not the souls hanging like limp dirty rags?-—And they make newspapers also out of these rags! Hearest thou not how spirit hath here become a verbal game? Loathsome verbal swill doth it vomit forth!—And they make newspapers also out of this verbal swill. They hound one another, and know not whither! They in- flame one another, and know not why! They tinkle with their pinchbeck, they jingle with their gold. They are cold, and seek warmth from distilled waters: they are inflamed, and seek coolness from frozen spirits; they are all sick and sore through public opinion. All lusts and vices are here at home; but here there are also the virtuous; there is much appointable appointed virtue: — Much appointable virtue with scribe-fingers, and hardy sitting-flesh and waiting-flesh, blessed with small breast-stars, and padded, haunchless daughters. There is here also much piety, and much faithful spittie licking and spittle-backing, before the God of Hosts. £96 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA “From on high,” drippeth the star, and the gracious spittle; for the high, longeth every starless bosom. The moon hath its court, and the court hath its moon- calves: unto all, however, that cometh from the court do the mendicant people pray, and all appointable mendicant virtues. “I serve, thou servest, we serve’’—so prayeth all appoint- able virtue to the prince: that the merited star may at last stick on the slender breast! But the moon still revolveth around all that is earthlv: so tevolveth also the prince around what is earthliest of all— that, however, is the gold of the shopman. The God of the Hosts of wai is not the God of the golden bar; the prince proposeth, but the shopman-——disposeth! By all that is luminous and strong and good in thee, O Zara- thustra! Spit on this city of shopmen and return back! Here floweth all blood putridly and tepidly and frothily through all veins: spit on the great city, which is the great slum where all the scum frotheth together! Spit on the city of compressed souls and slender breasts, of pointed eyes and sticky fingers— —On the city of the obtrusive, the brazen-faced, the pen- demagogues and tongue-demagogues, the overheated ambi- tious :— Where everything maimed, ill-famed, lustful, untrustful, over-mellow, sickly-yellow and seditious, festereth perni- ciously :— —Spit on the great city and turn back!— Here, however, did Zarathustra interrupt the foaming fool, and shut his mouth.— Stop this at once! called out Zarathustra, long have thy speech and thy species disgusted me! ON PASSING-BY 193 Why didst thou live so long by the swamp, that chou thy: self hadst to become a frog and a toad? Floweth there not a tainted, frothy, swarap-blood in thine own veins, when thou hast thus learned to croak aiid revile? Why wentest thou not into the forest? Or why didst thou not till the ground? Is the sea not full of green islands? I despise thy contempt; and when thou watnedst me—why didst thou not warn thyself? Out of love alone shall my contempt and my warning bird take wing; but not out of the swamp!— They call thee mine ape, thou foaming fool: but I call thee my grunting-pig,—by thy grunting, thou spoilest even my praise of folly. What was it that first made thee grunt? Because no one sufficiently flattered thee:—therefore didst thou seat thyselt beside this filth, that thou mightest have cause for much grunt- ing,— —That thou mightest have cause for much vengeance! For vengeance, thou vain fool, is all thy foaming; I have divined thee well! But thy fools’-word injureth ze, even when thou art right! And even if Zarathustra’s word were a hundred times justified, thou wouldst ever—do wrong with my word! Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he look on the great city and sighed, and was long silent. At last he spake thus: I loathe also this great city, and not only this fool. Here aad there—there is nothing to better, nothing to worsen. Woe to this great city!—And I would that I already saw the pillar of fire in which it will be consumed! For such pillars of fire must precede the great noontide. But ‘his hath its time and its own fate.— 198 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA This precept, however, give I unto thee, in parting, thou fool: Where one can no longer love, there should one—pass by!— Thus spake Zarathustra, and passed by the fool and the great city. 2. The Apostates i AH, LIETH everything already withered and grey which but lately stood green and many-hued on this meadow! And how much honey of hope did I carry hence into my beehives! Those young hearts have already all become old—and not oid even! only weary, ordinary, comfortable:—they declare it: “We have again become pious.” Of late did I see them run forth at early morn with valorous steps: but the feet of their knowledge became weary, and now do they malign even their morning valour! Verily, many of them once lifted their legs like the dancer; to them winked the laughter of my wisdom:—then did they bethink themselves. Just now have I seen them bent down—to cfeep to the cross. Around light and liberty did they once flutter like gnats and young poets. A little older, a little colder: and already are they mystifiers, and mumblers and mollycoddles. Did perhaps their hearts despond, because lonesomeness had swallowed me like a whale? Did their ear perhaps hearken THE APOSTATES 199 yearningly-long for me in vain, and for my trurnpet-notes and herald-calls? —Ahk! Ever are there but few of those whose hearts have persistent courage and exuberance; and in such remaineth also the spirit patient. The rest, however, are cowardly. The rest: these are always the great majority, the common- place, the superfluous, the far-too many—those all are cowardly!— Him who is of my type, will also the experiences of my type meet on the way: so that his first companions must be corpses and buffoons. His second companions, however—they will call themselves his believers,—will be a living host, with much love, much folly, much unbearded veneration. To those believers shall he who is of my type among men not bind his heart; in those spring-times and niany-hued meadows shall he not believe, who knoweth the fickly faint- hearted human species! Could they do otherwise, then would they also w#/l other- wise. The half-and-half spoil every whole. That leaves become withered,—what 1s there to lan.ent about that! Let them go and fali away, O Zarathustra, and do not lament! Better even to blow amongst them with rustling winds,— —Blow amongst those leaves, O Zarathustra, that every- thing withered may run away from thee the faster! — 2 ae ee ee “We have again become pious’ —so do those apostates con: tess; and some of them are still too pusillanimous thus te contess. 200 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Unto them I look into the eye,—before them I say it unto their face and unto the blush on their cheeks: Ye are those who again pray! It is however a shame to pray! Not for all, but for thee, and me, and whoever hath his conscience in his head. For thee it is a shame to pray! Thou knowest it well: the faint-hearted devil in thee, which would fain fold its arms, and place its hands in its bosom, and take it easier:—this faint-hearted devil persuadeth thee that “there 7s a God!” Thereby, however, dost thou belong to the light-dreading type, to whom light never permitteth repose: now must thou daily thrust thy head deeper into obscurity and vapour! And verily, thou choosest the hour well: for just now do the nocturnal birds again fly abroad. The hour hath come for all light-dreading people, the vesper hour and leisure hour, when they do not—‘ take leisure.” I hear it and smell it: it hath come—their hour for hunt and )procession, not indeed for a wild hunt, but for a tame, lame, snuffiing, soft-treaders’, soft-prayers’ hunt,— —For a hunt after susceptible simpletons: all mouse-traps for the heart have again been set! And whenever I lift a cur- tain, a night-moth rusheth out of it. Did it perhaps squat there along with another night-moth? For everywhere do I smell small concealed communities; and wherever there are closets there are new devotees therein, and the atmosphere of devotees. They sit for long evenings beside one another, and say: “Let us again become like little children and say, ‘good God!’ "— ruined in mouths and stomachs by the pious confectioners. Or they look for long evenings at a crafty, lurking cross- THE APOSTATES 201 spider, that preacheth prudence to the spiders themselves, and teacheth that ‘‘under crosses it is good for cobweb-spinning!”’ Or they sit all day at swamps with angle-rods, and on that account think themselves profound, but whoever fisheth where there are no fish, I do not even call him superficial! Or they learn in godly-gay style to play the harp with a hymn-poet, who would fain harp himself into the heart of young girls:—for he hath tired of old girls and their praises. Or they learn to shudder with a learned semi-madcap, wha waiteth in darkened rooms for spirits to come to him—and the spirit runneth away entirely! Cr they listen to an old roving howl- and growl-piper, wha hath learned from the sad winds the sadness of sounds; now pipeth he as the wind, and preacheth sadness in sad strains. And some of them have even become night-watchmen: they know now how to blow horns, and go about at night and awaken old things which have long fallen asleep. Five words about old things did I hear yesternight at the garden-wall: they came from such old, sorrowful, arid night: watchmen. ‘For a father he careth not sufficiently for his children: human fathers do this better!”’— ‘He is too old! He now careth no more for his children,” — answered the other night-watchman. ‘Hath he then children? No one can prove it unless he him- self prove it! I have long wished that he would for once prove it thoroughly.” ‘Prove? As if be had ever proved anything! Proving is diffi- cult to him; he layeth great stress on one’s believing him.” “Ay! Ay! Belief saveth him; belief in him. That is the way with old people! So it is with us also!” — 202 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA —Thus spake to each other the two old night-watchmen and light-scarers, and tooted thereupon sorrowfully on their horns: so did it happen yesternight at the garden-wall. To me, however, did the heart writhe with laughter, and was like to break; it knew not where to go, and sunk into the midriff. Verily, it will be my death yet—to choke with laughter when I see asses drunken, and hear night-watchmen thus doubt about God. Hath the time not Jong since passed for all such doubts? Who may nowadays awaken such old slumbering, light-shun- ning things! With the old Deities hath it long since come to an end:— and verily, a good joyful Deity-end had they! They did not “begloom” themselves to death—that do people fabricate! On the contrary, they—/aughed themselves to death once on a time! That took place when the ungodliest utterance came frorn a God himself—the utterance: ‘“There is but one God! Thou shalt have no other gods before me!”’— —An old grim-beard of a God, a jealous one, forgot him- self in such wise:— And all the gods then laughed, and shook upon their thrones, and exclaimed: “Is it not just divinity that there are gods, but no God?” He that hath an ear let him hear.— Thus talked Zarathustra in the city he loved, which 1s sur- named ‘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. THE RETURN HOME 203 53. The Return Home O LONESOMENESS! my home, lonesomeness! Too long have I lived wildly in wild remoteness, to return to thee without tears! Now threaten me with the finger as mothers threaten; now smile upon me as mothers smile; now say just: ““Who was it that like a whirlwind once rushed away from me?— —Who when departing called out: “Too long have I sat with lonesomeness; there have I unlearned silence!’ That hast thou learned now—surety? O Zarathustra, everything do I know; and that thou wert more forsaken amongst the many, thou unique one, than thou ever wert with me! One thing is forsakenness, another matter is lonesomeness: that hast thou now learned! And that amongst men thou wilt ever be wild and strange: —Wild and strange even when they love thee: for above all they want to be treated indul gently! Here, however, art thou at home and house with thyself; here canst thou utter everything, and unbosom all motives; nothing is here ashamed of concealed, congealed feelings. Here do all things come caressingly to thy talk and flatter thee: for they want to ride upon thy back. On every simile dost thou here ride to every truth. Uprightly and openly mayest thou here talk to all things: and verily, it soundeth as praise in their ears, for one to talk to all things—directly! Another matter, however, is forsakenness. For, dost thou re- member, O Zarathustra? When thy bird screamed overhead, 204 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA when thou stoodest in the forest, irresolute, ignorant where to go, beside a corpse: — —When thou spakest: ‘Let mine animals lead me! More dangerous have I found it among men than among animals:’ —T hat was forsakenness! And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra? When thou sattest in thine isle, a well of wine giving and granting amongst empty buckets, bestowing and distributing amongst the thirsty: —Until at last thou alone sattest thirsty amongst the drunken ones, and wailedst nightly: ‘Is taking not more blessed than giving? And stealing yet more blessed than taking?’—T hat was forsakenness! And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra? When thy stillest hour came and drove thee forth from thyself, when with wicked whispering it said: ‘Speak and succumb!’— —When it disgusted thee with all thy waiting and silence, and discouraged thy humble courage: That was forsaken- ness!’’— O lonesomeness! My home, lonesomeness! How blessedly and tenderly speaketh thy voice unto me! We do not question each other, we do not complain to each other; we go together openly through open doors. For all is open with thee and clear; and even the hours run here on lighter feet. For in the dark, time weigheth heavier upon one than in the light. Here fly open unto me all beings’ words and word-cabinets: here all being wanteth to become words, here all becoming wanteth to learn of me how to talk. Down there, however—all talking is in vain! There, for- getting and passing-by are the best wisdom: that have I learned now! THE RETURN HOME 204 He who would understand everything in man inust handle everything. But for that I have too clean hands. I do not like even to inhale their breath; alas! that I have lived so long among their noise and bad breaths! O blessed stillness around me! O pure odours around me! How from a deep breast this stillness fetcheth pure breath! How it hearkeneth, this blessed stillness! But down there—there speaketh everything, there 1s every- thing misheard. If one announce one’s wisdom with bells, the shopmen in the market-place will out-jingle it with pennies! Everything among them talketh; no one knoweth any longer how to understand. Everything falleth into the water; nothing falleth any longer into deep wells.: Everything among them talketh, nothing succeedeth any longer and accomplisheth itself. Everything cackleth, but who will still sit quietly on the nest and hatch eggs? Everything among them talketh, everything is out-talked. And that which yesterday was still too hard for time itself and its tooth, hangeth today, outchamped and outchewed, from the mouths of the men of today. Everything among them talketh, everything is betrayed. And what was once called the secret and secrecy of profound souls, belongeth to-day to the street-trumpeters and other butterflies. O human hubbub, thou wonderful thing! Thou noise in dark streets! Now art thou again behind me:—my greatest danger lieth behind me! In indulging and pitying lay ever my greatest danger; and all human hubbub wisheth to be indulged and tolerated. With suppressed truths, with fool’s hand and befooled heart, and rich in petty lies of pity:—thus have I ever itved among men. 206 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Disguised did I sit amongst them, ready to misjudge myself that I might endure them, and willingly saying to myself: “Thou fool, thou dost not know men!”’ One unlearneth men when one liveth amongst them: there is too much foreground in all men—what can far-seeing, far- longing eyes do there! And, fool that I was, when they misjudged me, 1 indulged them on that account more than myself, being habitually hard on myself, and often even taking revenge on myself for the indulgence. Stung all over by poisonous flies, and hollowed like the stone by many drops of wickedness: thus did I sit among them, and still said to myself: “Innocent is everything petty of its pettiness!” Especially did I find those who call themselves ‘‘the good,” the most poisonous flies; they sting in all innocence, they lie in all innocence; how could they—be just towards me! He who liveth amongst the good—pity teacheth him to lie. Pity maketh stifling air for all free souls. For the stupidity of the good is unfathomable. To conceal myself and my riches—that did I learn down there: for every one did I still find poor in spirit. It was the lie of my pity, that I knew in every one. —That I saw and scented in every one, what was enough of spirit for him, and what was too much! Their stiff wise men: I call them wise, not stiff—thus did i learn to slur over words. The grave-diggers dig for themselves diseases. Under old rubbish rest bad vapours. One should not stir up the marsh. Dne should live on mountains. With blessed nostrils do J again breathe mountain-freedom, re THE THREE EVIL THINGS 207 Freed at last is my nose from the smell of all human hubbub! With sharp breezes tickled, as with sparkling wine, sxeezeth my soul—sneezeth, and shouteth self-congratulatingly: “Health to thee!” Thus spake Zarathustra. 54. The Three Evil Things I IN my dream, in my last morning-dream, I stood today on a promontory—beyond the world; I held a pair of scales, and weighed the world. Alas, that the rosy dawn came too early to me: she glowed me awake, the jealous one! Jealous is she always of the glows of my morning-dream. Measurable by him who hath time, weighable by a good weigher, attainable by strong pinions, divinable by divine nut- crackers: thus did my dream find the world: — My dream, a bold sailor, half-ship, half-hurricane, silent as the butterfly, impatient as the falcon: how had it the patience and leisure to-day for world-weighing! Did my wisdom perhaps speak secretly to it, my laughing, wide-awake day-wisdom, which mocketh at all “infinite worlds’? For it saith: ‘“Where force is, there becometh number the master: it hath more force.” How confidently did my dream contemplate this finite 208 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA world, not new-fangledly, not old-fangledly, not oe not entreatingly :— As if a big round apple presented itself to my hand, a ripe golden apple, with a coolly-soft, velvety skin:—thus did the world present itself unto me:— —As if a tree nodded unto me, a broad-branched, strong- willed tree, curved as a recline and a foot-stool for weary travellers: thus did the world stand on my promontory:— —As if delicate hands carried a casket towards me—a casket open for the delectation of modest adoring eyes: thus did the world present itself before me today:— —Not riddle enough to scare human love from it, not solu- tion enough to put to sleep human wisdom:—a humanly good thing was the world to me to-day, of which such bad things are said! How I thank my morning-dream that I thus at today’s dawn, weighed the world! As a humanly good thing did it come unto me, this dream and heart-comforter! And that I may do the like by day, and imitate and copy its best, now will I put the three worst things on the scales, and weigh them humanly well.— He who taught to bless taught also to curse: what are the three best cursed things in the world? These will I put on the scales. Voluptuousness, passion for power, and selfishness: these three things have hitherto been best cursed, and have been in worst and falsest repute—these three things will I weigh humanly well. Well! here is my promontory, and there is the sea—# rolleth hither unto me, shaggily and fawningly, the old, faith- ful, hundred-headed dog-monster that I love!— Well! Here will I hold the scales over the weltering sea: and THE THREE EVIL THINGS 209 also a witness do I choose to look on—thee, the anchorite-tree, thee, the strong-odoured, broad-arched tree that I love!— On what bridge goeth the now to the hereafter? By what constraint doth the high stoop to the low? And what enjoineth even the highest still—to grow upwards?— Now stand the scales poised and at rest: three heavy ques- tions have I thrown in; three heavy answers carrieth the other scale. 2 Voluptuousness: unto all hair-shirted despisers of the body, a sting and stake; and, cursed as “the world,’ by all back- worldsmen: for it mocketh and befooleth all erring, misin- ferring teachers. Voluptuousness: to the rabble, the slow fire at which it 1s burnt; to all wormy wood, to all stinking rags, the prepared heat and stew furnace. Voluptuousness: to free hearts, a thing innocent and free, the garden-happiness of the earth, all the future's thanks-over- flow to the present. Voluptuousness: only to the withered a sweet poison; to the lion-willed, however, the great cordial, and the reverently saved wine of wines. Voluptuousness: the great symbolic happiness of a higher happiness and highest hope. For to many is marriage promised, and more than marriage,— —To many that are more unknown to each other than man and woman:—and who hath fully understood how unknown to each other are man and woman! Voluptuousness:—but I will have hedges around my 210 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA thoughts, and even around my words, lest swine and liber- tine should break into my gardens!— Passion for power: the glowing scourge of the hardest of the heart-hard; the cruel torture reserved for the cruellest themselves; the gloomy flame of living pyres. Passion for power: the wicked gadfly which is mounted on the vainest peoples; the scorner of all uncertain virtue; which rideth on every horse and on every pride. Passion for power: the earthquake which breaketh and up- breaketh all that is rotten and hollow; the rolling, rumbling, punitive demolisher of whited sepulchres; the flashing inter- rogative-sign beside premature answers. Passion for power: before whose glance man creepeth and croucheth and drudgeth, and becometh lower than the serpent and the swine:—until at last great contempt crieth out of him—, Passion for power: the terrible teacher of great contempt, which preacheth to their face to cities and empires: “Away with thee!”’—until a voice crieth out of themselves: “Away with me!” Passion for power: which, however, mounteth alluringly even to the pure and lonesome, and up to self-satisfied eleva- tions, glowing like a love that painteth purple felicities allur- ingly on earthly heavens. Passion for power: but who would call it passzon, when the height longeth to stoop for power! Verily, nothing sick or dis- eased is there in such longing and descending! That the lonesome height may not forever remain lone- some and self-sufficing; that the mountains may come to the valleys and the winds of the heights to the plains:— Oh, who could find the right prenomen and honouring name THE THREE EVIL THINGS 211 for such longing! ‘‘Bestowing virtue’’——thus did Zarathustra once name the unnamable. And then it happened also,—and verily, it happened for the first time!—that his word blessed selfishness, the wholesome, healthy selfishness, that springeth from the powerful soul:— ——From the powerful soul, to which the high body apper- taineth, the handsome, triumphing, refreshing body, around which everything becometh a mirror: —tThe pliant, persuasive body, the dancer, whose symbol and epitome is the self-enjoying soul. Of such bodies and souls the self-enjoyment calleth itself “virtue.” With its words of good and bad doth such self-enjoyment shelter itself as with sacred groves; with the names of its hap- piness doth it banish from itself everything contemptible. Away from itself doth it banish everything cowardly; it saith: “Bad—+that is cowardly!’ Contemptible seem to it the ever-solicitous, the sighing, the complaining, and whoever pick up the most trifling advantage. It despiseth also all bitter-sweet wisdom: for verily, there 1s also wisdom that bloometh in the dark, a night-shade wisdom, which ever sigheth: “All is vain!” Shy distrust is regarded by it as base, and every one who wanteth oaths instead of looks and hands: also all over-ais- trustful wisdom,—for such is the mode of cowardly souis. Baser still it regardeth the obsequious, doggish one, who immediately lieth on his back, the submissive one; and there ts also wisdom that is submissive, and doggish, and pious, and obsequious. Hateful to it altogether, and a loathing, is he who wi!] never defend himself, he who swalloweth down poisonous spittle and bad looks, the all-too-patient one, the all-endurer, che all- satisfied one: for that is the mode of slaves. 212 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Whether they be servile before gods and divine spurnings, or before men and stupid human opinions: at a// kinds of slaves doth it spit, this blessed selfishness! Bad: thus doth st call all that is spirit-broken, and sordidly- servile—constrained, blinking eyes, depressed hearts, and the false submissive style, which kisseth with broad cowardly lips. And spurious wisdom: so doth it call all the wit that siaves, and hoary-headed and weary ones affect; and especially all the cunning, spurious-witted, curious-witted foolishness of priests! The spurious wise, however, all the priests, the world-weary, and those whose souls are of feminine and servile nature—oh, how hath their game all along abused selfishness! And precisely that was to be virtue and was to be called virtue—to abuse selfishness! And ‘‘selfless’’—so did they wish themselves with good reason, all those world-weary cowards and cross-spiders! But to all those cometh now the day, the change, the sword of judgment, rhe great noontide: then shall many things be revealed! And he who proclaimeth the ego wholesome and holy, and selfishness blessed, verily, he, the prognosticator, speaketh also what he knoweth: “Behold, it cometh, it 7s night, the great noontide!”’ .. (hus spake Zarathusta, THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY 213 45. Lhe Spirit of Gravity I My MOUTHPIECE—1is of the people: too:coarsely and cordially do I talk for Angora rabbits. And still stranger soundeth my word unto all ink-fish and pen-foxes. My hand-—is a fool’s hand: woe unto all tables and walls, and whatever hath room for fool’s sketching, fool’s scrawling! My foct—is a horse-foot; therewith do I trample and trot over stick and stone, in the fields up and down, and am be- devilled with delight in all fast racing. My stomach—is surely an eagle’s stomach? For it preferreth lamb’s flesh. Certainly it is a bird’s stomach. Nourished with innocent things, and with few, ready and impatient to fly, to fly away—that is now my nature: why should there not be something of bird-nature therein! And especially that I am hostile to the spirit of gravity, that is bird-nature:—verily, deadly hostile, supremely hostile, originally hostile! Oh, whither hath my hostility not flown and misflown! Thereof could i sing a song—- —and wz// sing it: though 1 be alone in an empty house, and must sing it to mine own ears. Other singers are there, to be sure, to whom only the full! house maketh the voice soft, the hand eloquent, the ‘eye ex: pressive, the heart wakeful:—those do I not resemble.— THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 2 He who one day teacheth men to fly will have shifted all landmarks; to him will all landmarks themselves fly into the air; the earth will he christen anew—as “the light body.”’ The ostrich runneth faster than the fastest horse, but it also thrusteth its head heavily into the heavy earth: thus is it with the man who cannot yet fly. Heavy unto him are earth and life, and so willeth the spirit of gravity! But he who would become light, and be a bird, must love luimself:—thus do I teach. Not, to be sure, with the !sve of the sick and infected, for with them stinketh even self-love! One must learn to love oneself—thus do I teach—with a wholesome and healthy love: that one may endure to be with oneself, and not go roving about. Such roving about christeneth itself ‘‘brotherly love’; with these words hath there hitherto been the best lying and dis- sembling, and especially by those who have been burdensome to every one. And verily, it is nc commandment for today and tomorrow to /earn to love oneself. Rather is it of all arts the finest, subtlest, last and patientest. for to its possessor is all possession well concealed, and of all treasure-pits one’s own is last excavated—so causeth the spirit of gravity. Almost in the cradle are we apportioned with heavy words and worths: “good” and ‘‘evil’’—so calleth itself this dowry. For the sake of it we are forgiven for living. And therefore suffereth one little children to come unto one, | THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY 215 to forbid them betimes to love themselves—so causeth the spirit of gravity. And we—we bear loyally what is apportioned unto us, on hard shoulders, over rugged mountains! And when we sweat, then do people say to us: “Yea, life is hard to bear!”’ But man himself only is hard to bear! The reason thereof is that he carrieth too many extraneous things on his shoui- ders. Like the camel kneeleth he down, and letteth himself be well laden. Especially the strong load-bearing man in whom reverence resideth. Too many extraneous heavy words and worths loadeth he upon himself—then seemeth life to him a desert! And verily! Many a thing also that is ovr own is hard to bear! And many internal things in man are like the oyster— repulsive and slippery and hard to grasp;— So that an elegant shell, with elegant adornment, must plead for them. But this art also must one learn: to bave a shell, and a fine appearance, and sagacious blindness! Again, it deceiveth about many things in man, that many a shell is poor and pitiable, and too much of a shell. Much con- cealed goodness and power is never dreamt of; the choicest dainties find no tasters! Women know that, the choicest of them: a little fatter a little leaner—oh, how much fate is in so little! Man is difficult to discover, and unto himself most difficult of all; often lieth the spirit concerning the soul. So causeth the Spirit of gravity. | He, however, hath discovered himself who saith: This is zy good and evil: therewith hath he silenced the mole and the dwarf, who say: “Good for all, evil for all.” Verily, neither do I like those who call everything good, and this world the best of all. Those do I call the all-satisfied. 216 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 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 “T’’ and “Yea” and “Nay.” To chew and digest everything, however—that is the genu- ine ra - I to say YE-A—that hath only the ass learned, and those like — Deep yellow and hot red—so wanteth my taste—it mixeth blood with all colours. He, however, who whitewasheth his house, betrayeth unto me a whitewashed soul. With mummies, some fall in love; others with phantoms: both alike hostile to all flesh and blood—oh, how repugnant are both to my taste! For I love blood. And there will I not reside and abide where every one spitteth and speweth: that is now my taste,—rather would I Jive amongst thieves and perjurers. Nobody carrieth gold in his mouth. Still more repugnant unto me, however, are all lick-spittles; and the most repugnant animal of man that I found, did I christen “parasite’’: it would not love, and would yet live by love. Unhappy do I call all those who have only one choice: either to become evil beasts, or evil beast-tamers. Amongst such would I not build my tabernacle. Unhappy do I also call those who have ever to wazt,—they are repugnant to my taste—all the toll-gatherers and traders, and kings, and other landkeepers and shopkeepers. Verily, I learned waiting also, and thoroughly so,— but only waiting for myself. And above all did I learn standing and walking and running and leaping and climbing and dancing. This however is my teaching: he who wishvth one day to fly, THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY: 217 must first learn standing and walking and running and climb- ing and dancing:—one doth not fly into flying! With rope-ladders learned I to reach many a window, with nimble legs did I climb high masts: to sit on high masis of perception seemed to me no small bliss;— —To flicker like small flames on high masts: a small light, certainly, but a great comfort to cast-away sailors and ship- wrecked ones! By divers ways and wendings did I arrive at my truth; not by one ladder did I mount to the height where mine eye roveth into my remoteness. And unwillingly only did I ask my way—that was always counter to my taste! Rather did I question and test the ways themselves. A testing and a questioning hath been all my travelling: — and verily, one must also /earn to answer such questioning! That, however,—is my taste: —Neither a good nor a bad taste, but my taste, of which i have no longer either shame or secrecy. “This—is now my way,—where is yours?” Thus did 4 answer those who asked me “‘the way.” For the way—it doth not exist! Thus spake Zarathustra. 218 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 56. Old and New Tables 1 HERE do ] sit and wait, old broken tables around me and also new half-written tables. When cometh mine hour? —The hour of my descent, of my down-going: for once more will I go unto men. For that hour do I now wait: for first must the signs come unto me that it is mine hour—namely, the laughing lion with the flock of doves. Meaawhile do I talk to myself as one who hath time. No one telleth me anything new, so I tell myself mine own story. 2 When I came unto men, then found I them resting on an oid infatuation: all of them thought they had long known whac was good and bad for men. An old wearisome business seemed to them all discourse about virtue; and he who wished to sleep well spake of ‘“‘good”’ and ‘‘bad”’ ere retiring to rest. This somnolence did I disturb when I taught that o one yet knoweth what is good and bad:—unless it be the creating one! —It is he, however, who createth man’s goal, and giveth to the earth its meaning and its future: he only effecteth it that aught is good or bad. And I bade them upset their old academic chairs, and OLD AND NEW TABLES 219 wherever that old infatuation had sat; I bade them laugh at their great moralists, their saints, their poets, and their saviours. At their gloomy sages did I bid them laugh, and whoever had sat admonishing as a black scarecrow on the tree of life. On their great grave-highway did I seat mvself, and even beside the carrion and vultures—and I laughea at all thet bygone and its mellow decaying glory. Verily, like penitential preachers and fools did I cry wrath and shame on all their greatness and smallness. Oh, that their best is so very small! Oh, that their worst is so very small! Thus did I laugh. Thus did my wise longing, born in the mountains, cry and laugh in me; a wild wisdom, verily!—my great pinion- rustling longing. And oft did it carry me off and up and away and in the midst of laughter; then flew I quivering like an arrow with sun- intoxicated rapture: —Out into distant futures, which no dream hath yet seen, into warmer souths than ever sculptor conceived,—where gods in their dancing are ashamed of all clothes: (That I may speak in parables and halt and stammer like the poets: and verily I am ashamed that I have still to be a poet!) Where all becoming seemed to me dancing of gods, and wantoning of gods, and the world unloosed and unbridled and fleeing back to itself :— —As an eternal self-fleeing and re-seeking of one another of many gods, as the blessed self-contradicting, recommun- ing, and refraternising with one another of many gods:— Where all time seemed to me a blessed mockery of moments, where necessity was freedom itself, which played happily wim the goad of freedom:— 220 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Where I also found again mine old devil and arch-enemy, the spirit of gravity, and all that it created: constraint, law, necessity and consequence and purpose and will and good and evil :— For must there not be that which is danced over, danced be- yond? Must there not, for the sake of the nimble, the nimblest, >—be moles and clumsy dwarfs?— 3 There was it also where I picked up from the path the word “Superman,” and that man is something that must be sur. passed. —That man is a bridge and not a goal—rejoicing over his noontides and evenings, as advances to new rosy dawns: —The Zarathustra word of the great noontide, and what- ever else I have hung up over men like purple evening-after- glows. Verily, also new stars did I make them see, along with new nights; and over cloud and day and night, did I spread out laughter like a gay-coloured canopy. I taught them all my poetisation and aspiration: to com- pose and collect into unity what is fragment in man, and riddle and fearful chance;— —As composer, riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance, did I teach them to create the future, and all that hath been—to re- deem by creating. The past of man to redeem, and every “It was’ to transform, until the Will saith: “But so did I will it! So shall I will it—” —This did J cali redemption; this alone taught I them to call redemption.— —- OLD AND NEW TABLES 221r° Now do I await my redemption—that I may go unto them for the last time. For once more will I go unto men: amongst them wil! my sun set; in dying will I give them my choicest gift! From the sun did I learn this, when it goeth down, the exuberant one: gold doth it then pour into the sea, out of in- exhaustible riches,— —So that the poorest fisherman roweth even with golden oars! For this did I once see, and did not tire of weeping in beholding it.— — Like the sun will also Zarathustra go down: now sitteth he here and waiteth, old broken tables around him, and also new tables—half-written. 4 Behold, here is a new table; but where are my brethren who will carry it with me to the valley and into hearts of flesh?— Thus demandeth my great love to the remotest ones: be not considerate oj thy neighbour! Man is something that must be surpassed. There are many divers ways and modes of surpassing: see thoz thereto! But only a buffoon thinketh: ‘‘man can also be overleapt.” Surpass thyself even in thy neighbour: and a right which thou canst seize upon, shalt thou not allow to be given thee! What thou doest can no one do to thee again. Lo, there is no requital. Me who cannot command himself shall obey. And many a one can command himself, but still sorely lacketh self-obedi- ence! 7 lw LO) bo THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTR&A a e Thus wisheth the type of noble souls: they desire to have nothing gratuitously, least of all, life. He who 1s of the populace wisheth to live gratuitously; we others, however, to whom life hath given itself—we are ever considering what we can best give in return! And verily, it is a noble dictum which saith: ‘‘What life promiseth ws, that promise will we keep—to life!”’ One should not wish to enjoy where one doth not contribute to the enjoyment. And one should not w7sh to enjoy! For enjoyment and innocence are the most bashrui things Neither like to be sought for. One should /ave them,—but one should rather seek for guilt and pain!— 6 O my brethren, he who ts a firstling is ever sacrificed. Now, however, are we firstlings! We all bleed on secret sacrificial altars, we all burn and broil in honour of ancient idols. Our best is still young: this exciteth old palates. Our flesh is tender, our skin is only lambs’ skin:—how could we not excite old idol-priests! In ourselves dwelleth he still, the old idol-priest, whe broileth our best for his banquet. Ah, my brethren, how coula firstlings fail to be sacrifices! But so wisheth our type; and I love those who do not wish tc preserve themselves, the down-going ones do I love with mune entire iove: for they go beyond.— OLD AND NEW TABLES 223 7 To be true—that czm few be! And he who can, will not! Least of all, however, can the good be true. Oh, those good ones! Good men never speak the truth. For the spirit, thus to be good, is a malady. They yield, those good ones, they submit themselves; theit heart repeateth, their soul obeyeth: 4e, however, who obeyeth, doth not listen to himself! All that is called evil by the good, must come together in order that one truth may be born. O my brethren, are ye also evil enough for ¢47s truth? The daring venture, the prolonged distrust, the cruel Nay, the tedium, the cutting-into-the-quick—how seldom do these come together! Out of such seed, however—is truth produced! Beside the bad conscience hath hitherto grown all know!- edge! Break up, break up, ye discerning ones, the old tables! 8 When the water hath planks, when gangways and railings o’erspan the stream, verily, he is not believed who then saith: “All is in flux.” But even the simpletons contradict him. “What?” say the simpletons, ‘‘all in flux? Planks and railings are still over the stream! “Over the stream all is stable, all the values of things, the bridges and bearings, all ‘good’ and ‘evil’: these are all stable!” — 224 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Cometh, however, the hard winter, the stream-tamer, then learn even the wittiest distrust, and verily, not only the simple- tons then say: “Should not everything—stand still?” “Fundamentally standeth everything still” —that is an ap- propriate winter doctrine, good cheer for an unproductive period, a great comfort for winter-sleepers and _ fireside- loungers. ‘Fundamentally standeth everything still’’—: but contrary thereto, preacheth the thawing wind! The thawing wind, a bullock, which is no ploughing bullock —a furious bullock, a destroyer, which with angry horns breaketh the ice! The ice however— —breaketh gangways! O my brethren, is not everything at present in flux? Have not all railings and gangways fallen into the water? Who would still old on to “good” and “‘evil’’? “Woe to us! Hail to us! The thawing wind bloweth!”"— Thus preach, my brethren, through all the streets! 9 There is an old illusion—it is called good and evil. Around soothsayers and astrologers hath hitherto revolved the orbit of this illusion. Once did one believe in soothsayers and astrologers; and therefore did one believe, ““Everything is fate: thou shalt, for thou must!” Then again did one distrust all soothsayers and astrologers; and therefore did one believe, ‘Everything is freedom: thou canst, for thou willest!”’ O my brethren, concerning the stars and the future there OLD AND NEW TABLES 225 hath hitherto been only illusion, and not knowledge; and therefore concerning good and evil there hath hitherto been only illusion and not knowledge! 10 “Thou shalt not rob! Thou sk.alt not slay!’’—such precepts were once called holy; before them did one bow the knee and the head, and take off one’s shoes. But I ask you: Where have there ever been better robbers and slayers in the world than such holy precepts? Is there not even tn all life—robbing and slaying? And for such precepts to be called holy, was not truth itself thereby— slain? ——Or was it a sermon of death that called holy what contra- dicted and dissuaded from life?—O my brethren, break up, break up for me the old tables! 1 It is my sympathy with all the past that I see it is aban- doned,— —Abandoned to the favour, the spirit and the madness of every generation that cometh, and reinterpreteth all that hath been as its bridge! A great potentate might arise, an artful prodigy, who with approval and disapproval could strain and constrain ali the past, until 1t became for him a bridge, a harbinger, a herald, and a cock-crowing. 226 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA This however is the other danger, and mine other sympathy: —he who is of the populace, his thoughts go back to his grand- father,—with his grandfather, however, doth time cease. Thus ts all the past abandoned: for it might some day hap- pen for the populace to become master, and drown all time in shallow waters. Therefore, O my brethren, a new nobility is needed, which shall be the adversary of all populace and potentate rule, and shall inscribe anew the word “noble” on new tables. For many noble ones are needed, and many kinds of noble ones, for a new nobility! Or, as I once said in parable: ‘That is just divinity, that there are gods, but no God!” 12 O my brethren, I consecrate you and point you to a new nobility: ye shall become procreators and cultivators and sowers of the future;— —Verily, not to a nobility which ye could purchase like traders with traders’ gold; for little worth is all that hath its price. Let it not be your honour henceforth whence ye come, but whither ye go! Your Will and your feet which seek to surpass you—let these be your new honour! Verily, not that ye have served a prince—of what account are princes now!—nor that ye have become a bulwark to that which standeth, that it may stand more firmly. Not that your family have become courtly at courts, and that ye have learned—gay-coloured, like the famingo—to stand long hours in shallow pools: (For ab:lity-to-stand is a merit im courtiers; and all cour- OLD AND NEW TABLES 227 tiers believe that unto blessedness after death pertaineth— per- mission-to-sit! ) Nor even that a Spirit called Holy, led your forefathers into promised lands, which I do not praise: for where the worst of all trees grew—the cross,—in that land there is nothing to praise!— —And verily, wherever this “Holy Spirit’’ led its knights, always in such campaigns did—goats and geese, and wry- heads and guy-heads run foremost!— O my brethren, not backward shall your nobility gaze, but outward! Exiles shall ye be from all fatherlands and forefather- lands! | |: Your children’s land shall ye love: let this love be your new nobility,—the undiscovered in the remotest seas! For it do I bid your sails search and search! Unto your children shall ye make amends for being the chi!- dren of your fathers: all the past shall ye thus redeem! This new table do I place over you! 13 “Why should one live? All is vain! To live—that is to thresh straw; to live—that is to burn oneself and yet not get warm. — Such ancient babbling still passeth for “wisdom’’, because it is old, however, and smelleth mustily, therefore is it the more honoured. Even mould ennobleth.— Children might thus speak: they sn the fire because it hath burnt them! There is much childishness in the old books of wisdom. 228 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA And he who ever “thresheth straw,” why should he be allowed to rail at threshing! Such a fool one would have to muzzle! Such persons sit down to the table and bring nothing with them, not even good hunger:—and then do they rail: “All is vain!” But to eat and drink well, my brethren, is verily no vain art! Break up, break up for me the tables of the never-joyous ones! 14 ‘To the clean are all things clean’”’—thus say the people. I, however, say unto you: To the swine all things become swinish! Therefore preach the visionaries and bowed-heads (whos« hearts are also bowed down): “The world itself is a filthy monster.” For these are all unclean spirits; especially those, however, who have no peace or rest, unless they see the world from the bacrside—the backworldsmen! To those do I say it to the face, although it sound unpleas- antly: the world resembleth man, in that it hath a backside,—- so much js true! There is in the world much filth: so much is true! But the world itself is not therefore a filthy monster! There is wisdom in the fact that much in the world smelleth badly: loathing itself createth wings, and fountain-divining powers! In the best there is still something to loathe; and the best is still something that must be surpassed!— © my brethren, there is much wisdom in the fact that much filth is in the world!— OLD AND NEW TABLES 229 15 Such sayings did I hear pious backworldsmen speak to their consciences, and verily without wickedness or guile,— although there 1s nothing more guileful in the world, or more wicked. ‘Let the world be as it is! Raise not a finger against it!”’ “Let whoever will choke and stab and skin and scrape tke people: raise not a finger against it! Thereby will they learn to renounce the world.”’ ‘And thine own reason—this shalt thou thyself stifle and choke; for it is a reason of this world,—thereby wilt thou learn thyself to renounce the world.” — —Shatter, shatter, O my brethren, those old tables of the pious! Tatter the maxims of the world-maligners!— 16 “He who learneth much unlearneth all violent cravings’ — that do people now whisper to one another in all the dark lanes. “Wisdom wearieth, nothing is worth while; thou shalt not crave!’’—this new table found I hanging even in the public markets. Break up for me, O my brethren, break up also that new table! The weary-o’-the-world put it up, and the preachers of death and the jailer: for lo, it is also a sermon for slavery: — Because they learned badly and not the best, and everything too early and everything too fast; because they ate badly: from thence hath resulted their ruined stomach;— 230 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA -—For a ruined stomach, is their spirit: z¢ persuadeth to death! For verily, my brethren, the spirit zs a stomach! Life is a well of delight, but to him in whom the mined stomach speaketh, the father of affliction, all fountains are poisoned. To discern: that is delight to the lion-willed! But he who hath become weary, is himself merely ‘‘willed’’; with him play all the waves. And such is always the nature of weak men: they lose them- selves on their way. And at last asketh their weariness: ‘““Why did we ever go on the way? All is indifferent!”’ To them soundeth it pleasant to have preached in their ears: ‘Nothing is worth while! Ye shall not will!” That, however, is a sermon for slavery. O my brethren, a fresh blustering wind cometh Zarathustra unto all way-weary ones; many noses will he yet make sneeze! Even through walls bloweth my free breath, and into prisons and imprisoned smirits! Willing emancipateth: for willing is creating: so do I teach. And only for creating shall ye learn! And also the learning shall ye /earn only from me, the Jearning well!—He who hath ears let him hear! 17 There standeth the boat—thither goeth it over, perhaps into vast nothingness—but who willeth to enter into this ‘‘Per- haps’’? None of you want to enter into the death-boat! How should ye then be world-weary ones! World-weary ones! And have not even withdrawn from the OLD AND NEW TABLES 231 earth! Eager did I ever find you for the earth, amorous still of your own earth-weariness! Not in vain doth your lip hang down:—a small worldly wish still sitteth thereon! And in your eye—floateth there not a cloudlet of unforgotten earthly bliss? There are on the earth many good inventions, some useful, some pleasant: for their sake is the earth to be loved. And many such good inventions are there, that they are like woman's breasts: useful at the same time, and pleasant. Ye world-weary ones, however! Ye earth-idlers! You, shall one beat with stripes! With stripes shall one again make you sprightly limbs. For if ye be not invalids, or decrepit creatures, of whom the earth is weary, then are ye sly sloths, or dainty, sneaking pleasure-cats. And if ye will not again run gaily, then shall ye —pass away! To the incurable shall one not seek to be a physician: thus teacheth Zarathustra:—so shall ye pass away! But more courage is needed to make an end than to make a new verse: that do all physicians and poets know well.— 18 O my brethren, there are tables which weariness framed, and tables which slothfulness framed, corrupt slothfulness: although they speak similarly, they want to be heard dif- ferently.— See this languishing one! Only a span-breadth is he from his goal; but from weariness hath he lain down obstinately in the dust, this brave one! From weariness yawneth he at the path, at the earth, at the 232 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA goal, and at himself: not a step further will he go,—this brave one! Now gloweth the sun upon him, and the dogs lick at his sweat: but he lieth there in his obstinacy and preferreth to languish :— —A span-breadth from his goal, to languish! Verily, ye will have to drag him into his heaven by the hair of his head— this hero! Better still that ye let him lie where he hath lain down, that sleep may come unto him, the comforter, with cooling patter- rain. Let him lie, until of his own accord he awakeneth,—auntil ot his own accord he repudiateth all weariness, and what weart- ness hath taught through him! Only, my brethren, see that ye scare the dogs awav from him, the idle skulkers, and all the swarming vermin :— ----All the swarming vermin of the “‘cultured,” that—feast on the sweat of every hero!— 19 I form circles around me and holy boundaries; ever fewer ascend with me ever higher mountains: I build a monatain- range out of ever holier mountains.— But wherever ye would ascend with me, O my brethren, take care lest a parasite ascend with you! 7 A parasite: that is a reptile, a creeping, cringing reptile, that trieth to fatten on your infirm and sore places. And this is its art: it divineth where ascending souls are weary, in your trouble and dejection, in ye sensitive madesty, doth it build its loathsome nest. OLD AND NEW TABLES 233 Where the strong are weak, where the noble are all-too- gentle—there buildeth it its loathsome nest; the parasite liveth wnere the great have small sore-places. What is the highest of all species of being, and what is the lowest? The parasite is the lowest species; he, however, who is of the highest species feedeth most parasites. For the soul which hath the longest ladder, and can go deepest down: how could there fail to be most parasites upon it?— —The most comprehensive soul, which can run and stray and rove furthest in itself; the most necessary soul, which out of joy flingeth itself into chance:— —The soul in Being, which plungeth into Becoming; the possessing soul, which seeketh to attain desire and longing: — —tThe soul fleeing from itself, which overtaketh itself in the widest circuit; the wisest soul, unto which folly speaketh most sweetly :— —The soul most self-loving, in which all things have their current and counter-current, their ebb and their flow:—oh, how could the /oftzest soul fail to have the worst parasites? 20 C my brethren, am I then cruel? But I say: What falleth, that shall one also push! Everything of today—~it falleth, it lecave who would preserve it! But I—I wish also to push it! Know ye the delight which rolleth stones into precipitous depths?—Those men of today, see just how they roll into my depths! 234 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA A prelude am I to better players, O my brethren! An example! Do according to mine example! And him whom ye do not teach to fly, teach I pray you—to fall faster!— 2I I love the brave: but it is not enough to be a swordsman,—. one must also know whereon to use swordsmanship! And often is it greater bravery to keep quiet and pass by, that thereby one may reserve oneself for a worthier foe! Ye shall only have foes to be hated; but not foes to be despised: ye must be proud of your foes. Thus have I already taught. For the worthier foe, O my brethren, shall ye reserve your- selves: therefore must ye pass by many a one,— —Especially many of the rabble, who din your ears with noise about people and peoples. Keep your eye clear of their For and Against! There is there much right, much wrong: he who tooketk on becometh wroth. Therein viewing, therein hewing—they are the same thing: therefore depart into the forests and lay your sword to sleep! Go your ways! and let the people and peoples go theirs!— gloomy ways, verily, on which not a single hope glinteth any more! Let there the trader rule, where ali that still glittereth :s— traders’ gold. It is the time of kings no longer: that which now calleth itself the peovle is unworthy of kinys. See how these peoples themselves now do just like the traders: they pick up the smallest advantage out of all kinds of rubbish! OLD AND NEW TABLES 235 They lay lures for one another, they lure things out of one another,—that they call “good neighbourliness.” O blessed remote period when a people said to itself: “I will be— master over peoples!” For, my brethren, the best shall rule, the best also willeth to rule! And where the.teaching is different, there—the best zs lacking. 22 If they had—bread for nothing, alas! for what would they cry! Their maintainment—that is their true entertainment; and they shall have it hard! Beasts of prey, are they: in their ““working’’—there is even plundering, in their “earning’”—there is even over-reaching! Therefore shall they have it hard! Better beasts of prey shall they thus become, subtier, cleverer, more man-like: for man is the best beast of prey. All the animals hath man already robbed of their virtues: that is why of all animals it hath been hardest for man. Only the birds are still beyond him. And if man should yet learn to fly, alas! to what herght—would his rapacity fly! é ot Thus would I have man and woman: fit for war, the one; fit for maternity, the other; both, however, fit for dancing with head and legs. And lost be the day to us in which a measure hath not been danced. And false be every truth which hath not had iaugntes along with it: 236 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA a4 Your marriage-arranging: see that it be not a basi arranging! Ye have arranged too hastily: so there followeth theretrom— marriage-breaking! And better marriage-breaking than marriage-bending, mar- riage-lying!—Thus spake a woman unto me: ‘Indeed, I broke the marriage, but first did the marriage break—me!” The badly paired found I ever the most revengeful: they make every one suffer for it that they no longer run singly. On that account want I the honest ones to say to one an- other: “We love each other: let us see to zt that we maintain our love! Or shall our pledging be blundering?”’ —‘Give us a set term and a small marriage, that we may see if we are fit for the great marriage! It is a great matter always to be twain.”’ Thus do I counsel all honest ones; and what would be my love to the Superman, and to all that is to come, if I should counsel and speak otherwise! | Not only to propagate yourselves onwards but spwards— thereto, O my brethren, may the garden of marriage help you! 25 He who hath grown wise concerning old origins, lo, he will at last seek after the fountains of the future and new origins.— O my brethren, not long will it be until new peoples shall arise and new fountains shall rush down into new depths. For the earthquake—it choketh up many wells, it causeth much languishing: but it bringeth also to light inner powers and secrets. OLD AND NEW TABLES « Se!) The earthquake discloseth new fountains. In the earthquake of old peoples new fountains burst forth. And whoever calleth out: “Lo, here is a well for many thirsty ones, one heart for many longing ones, one will for many instruments’ :—-around him collecteth a people, that is to say, many attempting ones. Who can command, who must obey—+that is there at- tempted! Ah, with what long seeking and solving and failing and learning and re-attempting! Human society: it is an attempt—so I teach—a long seek- ing: it seeketh however the ruler!— —An attempt, my brethren! And zo “‘contract’’! Destroy, I pray you, destroy that word of the soft-hearted and half-ana- half! AG O my brethren! With whom lieth the greatest danger to the whole human future? Is it not with the good and just?— —As those who say and feel in their hearts: “We already know what is good and just, we possess it also; woe to those who still seek thereafter!” And whatever harm the wicked may do, the harm of the good is the harmfulest harm! And whatever harm the world-maligners may do, the harm of the good is the harmfulest harm! O my brethren, into the hearts of the good and just looked some One once on a time, who said: ““They are the Pharisees.”’ But people did not understand him. The good and just themselves were not free to understand him; their spirit was tmprisoned in their good conscience. The stupidity of the good is unfathomably ay 233 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA It is the truth, however, that the good must be Pharisees-—- they have no choice! The good must crucity him who deviseth his own virtue! hat zs the truth! The second one, however, who discovered their country— the country, heart and soil of the yood and just,—it was he who asked: “Whom do they hate most?” The creator, hate they most, him who breaketh the tables and old values, the breaxer,—him they call the law-breaker. For the good—they cannot create; they are always the be- ginning of the end:— —They crucify him who writeth new values on new tables, they sacrifice unto themselves the future—they crucify the whole human future! The good—they have always been the beginning of the end.— Abd © my brethren, have ye also understood this word? Ana what I once said’of the ‘‘last man’’?—- — With whom lieth the greatest danger to the whole human future? Is it not with the good and just? Break up, break up, I pray you, the good and just!—O my brethren, have ye understood also this word? 28 Ye flee from me? Ye are frightened? Ye tremble at this word? OLD AND NEW TABLES 230 O my brethren, when I enjoined you to break up the good, and the tables of the good, then only did I embark man on his high seas. And now only cometh unto him the great terror, the great outlook, the great sickness, the great nausea, the great sea- sickness. False shores and false securities did the good teach you; in the lies of the good were ye born and bred. Everything hath been radically contorted and distorted by the good. But he who discovered the country of ‘‘man,”’ discovered also the country of ‘‘man’s future.’’ Now shall ye be sailors for me, brave, patient! Keep yourselves up betimes, my brethren, learn to keep yourselves up! The sea stormeth: many seek to raise themselves again by you. The sea stormeth: all is in the sea. Well! Cheer up! Ye old seaman-hearts! What of fatherland! TAzther striveth our helm where our children’s land is! Thitherwards, stormier than the sea, stormeth our great longing!— 29 ‘““Why so hard!”—said to the diamond one day the char- coal; “‘are we then not near relatives?’’— Why so soft? O my brethren; thus do J ask you: are ye then not—my brethren? Why so soft, so submissive and yielding? Why is there so much negation and abnegation in your hearts? Why is there so little fate in your looks? 240 THUS SPAKE ‘ZARATHUSTRA And if ye will not be fates and inexorable ones, how can ye one day—conquer with me? And if your hardness will not glance and cut and chip to pieces, how can ye one day—create with me? For the creators are hard. And blessedness must it seem to you to press your hand upon millenniums as upon wax,— —Blessedness to write upon the will of milleuntums as upon brass,—harder than brass, nobler than brass. Entirely hard is only the noblest. This new table, O my brethren, put I up over you: Become bard!— 30 O thou, my Will! Thou change of every need, my needful- ness! Preserve me from all small victories! Thou fatedness of my soul, which I call fate! Thou In-me! Over-me! Preserve and spare me for one great fate! And thy last greatness, my Will, spare it for thy last—that thou mayest be inexorable zz thy victory! Ah, who hath not succumbed to his victory! Ah, whose eye hath not bedimmed in this intoxicated twi- light! Ah, whose foot hath not faltered and forgotten in vic- tory—how to stand!— —That I may one day be ready and ripe in the great noon- tide: ready and ripe like the glowing ore, the lightning-bearing cloud, and the swelling milk-udder:— —Ready for myself and for my most hidden Will: a bow taper for its arrow, an arrow eager for its star:— —-A star, ready and ripe in its noontide, glowing, pierced, blessed. by annihilating sun-arrows:— THE CONVALESCENT 243 —A sun itself, and an inexorable’ sun-will, ready for anni- hilation in victory! | O Will, thou change of every need, my neédfulness! Spare me for one great victory! — Thus spake Zarathustra. 57. The Convalescent if ONE morning, not long after his return to his cave, Zara: thustra 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, how: ever, spake these words: Up, abysmal thought out of my depth! I am thy cock and morning dawn, thou overslept reptile: Up! Up! My voice shali soon crow thee awake! Unbind the fetters of thine ears: listen! For I wish to hear thee! Up! Up! There is thunder enough to make the very graves listen! And rub the sleep and all the dimness and blindness out of 242 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA thine eyes! Hear me also with thine eyes: my voice is a medi cine even for those born blind. And once thou art awake, then shalt thou ever remain awake. It is not my custom to awake great-grandmothers out of their sleep that I may bid them—sleep on! Thou stirrest, stretchest thyself, wheezest? Up! Up! Not wheeze, shalt thou,—but speak unto me! Zarathustra calleth thee, Zarathustra the godless! -. I, Zarathustra, the advocate of living, the advocate of suffer- ing, the advocate of the circuit—thee do I call, my most abysmal thought! Joy to me! Thou comest,—I hear thee! Mine abyss speaketh, my lowest depth have I turned over into the light! Joy to me! Come hither! Give me thy hand— —ha! let be! aha!—- —Disgust, disgust, disgust — —alas to me! 2 Hardly, however, had Zarathustra spoken these words, when he fell down as one dead, and remained long as one dead. When however he again came to himself, then was he pale and trembling, and remained lying; and for long he would neither eat nor drink. This condition continued for seven days; his animals, however, did not leave him day nor night, except that the eagle fiew forth to fetch food. And what it fetched and foraged, it laid on Zarathustra’s couch: so that Zarathustra at last lay among yellow and red berries, grapes, rosy apples, sweet-smelling herbage, and pine-cones. At his feet, however, two lambs were stretched, which the eagle had with difficulty carried off from their shepherds. At last, after seven days, Zarathustra raised himself upon his THE CONVALESCENT 243 couch, took a rosy apple in his hand, smelt it and found its smell pleasant. Then did his animals think the time had come to speak unto him. “O Zarathustra,” said they, “now hast thou lain thus for seven days with heavy eyes: wilt thou not set thyself again upon thy feet? Step out of thy cave: the world waiteth for thee as a garden. The wind playeth with heavy fragrarice which seeketh for thee; and all brooks would like to run after thee. All things long for thee, since thou hast remained alone fos seven days—step forth out of thy cave! All things want to be thy physicians! Did perhaps a new knowledge come to thee, a bitter, grievous knowledge? Like leavened dough layest thou, thy soul arose and swelled beyond all its bounds.—”’ —QO mine animals, answered Zarathustra, talk on thus and let me listen! It refresheth me so to hear your talk: where there is talk, there is the world as a garden unto me. How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and tones rainbows and seeming bridges ’twixt the eternally separated? To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a back-world. Among the most alike doth semblance deceive most de- lightfully: for the smallest gap is most difficult to bridge over. For me—how could there be an outside-of-mer There is na outside! But this we forget on hearing tones; how delightfui it is that we forget! Have not names and tones been given unto things that mar may refresh himself with them? It is a beautifui folly, speak ing; therewith danceth man over everything. 244 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA How lovely is all speech and all falsehoods of cies With cones danceth our love on variegated rainbows.— - —-“O Zarathustra,” said then his animals, ‘‘to those wha think like us, things all dance themselves: they come and he:d out the hand and laugh and flee—and return. Everything goeth, everything returneth; eternally rolleth the wheel of existence. Everything dieth, everything blossometh forth again; eternally runneth on the year of existence. Everything breaketh, everything is integrated anew; eter- nally buildeth itself the same house of existence. All things separate, all things again greet one another; eternally true to itself remaineth the ring of existence. Every moment beginneth existence, around every ‘Here’ rolleth the ball ‘There.’ The middle is everywhere. Crooked is the path of eternity.” — —O ye wags and barrel-organs! answered Zarathustra, and smiled once more, how well do ye know what had to be ful- filled in seven days: — —And how that monster crept into my throat and choked me! But I bit off its head and spat it away from me. And ye—ye have made a lyre-lay out of it? Now, however, do I lie here, still exhausted with that biting and spitting- away, still sick with mine own salvation. And ye looked on at it all? O mine animals, are ye also cruel? Did ye like to look at my great pain as men do? For man is the cruellest animal. At tragedies, bull-fights, and crucifixions hath he hitherto been happiest on earth; and when he invented his hell, behold, that was his heaven on earth. When the great man crieth—: immediately runneth the little man thither, and his tongue hangeth out of his mouth ror very lusting. He, however, calleth it his ‘‘pity.” THE CONVALESCENT 245 The little man, especially the poet—how passionately doth he accuse life 2n words! Hearken to him, but do not fail to hear the delight which js in all accusation! Such accusers of life—them life overcometh with a glance of the eye. “Thou lovest me?’ saith the insolent one; “wait a tittle, as yet have I no time for thee.” Towards himself man is the cruellest arimal; and in all whe call themselves “‘sinners’’ and “‘bearers of the cross’’ and “penitents,”’ do not overlook the voluptuousness in their plaints and accusations! And I myself—do, I thereby want to be man’s accuser? Ah, mine animals, this only have I learned hitherto, that for man his baddest is necessary for his best, — —That all that is baddest is the best power, and the hardest stone for the highest creator; and that man must become better and badder:— Not to ¢hzs torture-stake was I tied, that I know man ts bad, —but I cred, as no one hath yet cried: ‘*Ah, tha: his baddest is so very small! Ah, that his best is so very small!” The great disgust at man—vt strangled me and had crept into my throat: and what the soothsayer had presaged: “All is alike, nothing is worth while, knowledge strangleth.” A long twilight limped on before me, a fatally weary, “atally intoxicated sadness, which spake with yawning mouth. “Eternally he returneth, the man of whom thou art weary, the small man’’—so yawned my sadness, and dragged its foot and could not go to sleep. A cavern, became the human earth to me; its breast caved in; everything living became to me human dust and bones and mouldering past. My sighing sat on all human graves, and could no longer 246 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA rise: my sighing and questioning croaked and choked, and gnawed and nagged day and night: —~‘Ah, man returneth eternally! The small man returneté eternally!” Naked had I once seen both of them, the greatest man an¢ the smallest man: all too like one another—all too human even the greatest man! All too small, even the greatest man!—that was my disgus! at man! And the eternal return also of the smallest man!—that was my disgust at all existence! Ah, Disgust! Disgust! Disgust!— —Thus spake Zarathus- tra, and sighed and shuddered; for he remembered his sick- ness. Then did his animals prevent him from speaking further ‘Do not speak further, thou convalescent!’’—so answered his animals, ‘‘but go out where the world waiteth for thee like a garden. Go out unto the roses, the bees, and the flocks of doves! Especially, however, unto the singing-birds, to learn singing from them! For singing is for the convalescent; the sound ones may talk. And when the sound also want songs, then want they other songs than the convalescent.” ——“O ye wags and barrel-organs, do be silent!”’ answered Zarathustra, and smiled at his animals. ‘““How well ye know what consolation I devised for myself in seven days! That I have to sing once more—+¢hat consolation did IJ de. vise for myself, and thzs convalescence: would ye also make another lyre-lay thereof?” —‘Do not talk further,’ answered his animals once more; “rather, thou convalescent, prepare for thyself first a lyre, 3 new lyre! THE CONVALESCENT 247 For behold, O Zarathustra! For thy new lays there are aeeded new lyres. - Sing and bubble over, O Zarathustra, heal thy soul with new ‘ays: that thou mayest bear thy great fate, which hath not yet been any one’s fate! For thine animals know it well, O Zarathustra, who thou art and must become: behold, thou art the teacher of the eternal return,—that is now thy fate! That thou must be the first to teach this teaching—how could this great fate not be thy greatest danger and infirmity! Behold, we know what thou teachest: that all things eter- nally return, and ourselves with them, and that we have already existed times without number, and all things with us. Thou teachest that there is a great year of Becoming, a prodigy of a great year; it must, like a sand-glass, ever turn up anew, that it may anew run down and run out:— —So that all those years are like one another in the greatest and also in the smallest, so that we ourselves, in every great year, are like ourselves in the greatest and also in the smallest. And if thou wouldst now die, O Zarathustra, behold, we know also how thou wouldst then speak to thyself :—-but thine animals beseech thee not to die yet! Thou wouldst speak, and without trembling, buoyant rather with bliss, for a great weight and worry would be taken from thee, thou patientest one!— ‘Now do I die and disappear,’ wouldst thou say, ‘and in a moment I am nothing. Souls are as mortal as bodies. But the p!exus of causes returneth in which I am inter- twined,—it will again create me! I myself pertain to the causes of the eternal return. I come again with this sun, with this earth, with this eagle, 248 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA with this serpent—vot to a new life, or a better life, or a similar Hie: ——I ome again eternally to this identical and selfsame life, in ‘ts greatest and its smallest, to teach again the eternal return of all things,— —To speak again the word of the great noontide of earth and man, to announce again to man the Superman. I have spoken my word. I break down by my word: so willeth mine eternal fate—as announcer do I succumb! The hour hath now come for the down-goer to bless himself. Thus—endeth Zarathustra’s down-going.’ ’”’— — When the animals had spoken these words they were silent and waited, so that Zarathustra might say something to them; but Zarathustra did not hear that they were silent. On the con- trary, 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 aim silent in such wise, respected the great stillness around nim, and prudently retired. 58. The Great Longing 3 O my soul, I have taught thee to say “today” as “once on 4 time’ and “formerly,’’ and to dance thy measure over every Here and There and Yonder. © my soul, I delivered thee from all by-places, I brushed down from thee dust and spiders and twilight. ~ Omy soul, I washed the petty shame and the by-place virtue THE GREAT LONGING 249 from thee, and persuaded thee to stand naked before the eyes of the sun. With the storm that is called ‘‘spirit’’ did I blow over thy surging sea; all clouds did I blow away from it; I strangled ever the strangler called “sin.” O my soul, I gave thee the right to say Nay like the storm, and to say Yea as the open heaven saith Yea: calm as the light remainest thou, and now walkest through denying storms. O my soul, I restored to thee liberty over the created and the uncreated; and who knoweth, as thou knowest, the voluptuous: ness of the future? O my soul, I taught thee the contempt which doth not come like worm-eating, the great, the loving contempt, which loveth most where it contemneth most. O my soul, I taught thee so to persuade that thou persuadest even the grounds themselves to thee: like the sun, which per- suadeth even the sea to its height. O my soul, I have taken from tnee all obeying and knee- bending and homage-paying; I have myself given thee the names, ‘Change of need” and “Fate.” O my soul, I have given thee new names and gay-coloured playthings, I have called thee “Fate” and “the Circuit of cir- cuits” and “‘the Navel-string of time’ and “the Azure bell.” O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom to drink all new wines, and also all immemorially old strong wines of wisdom. O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every silence and every longing:—then grewest thou up for me as a vine. O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine with swelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes:— 250 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA —Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance, and yet ashamed of thy waiting. O.my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and more comprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past be closer together than with thee? O my soul, I have given thee everything, and all my hands have become empty by thee:—and now! Now sayest thou to me, smiling and full of melancholy: ‘““Which of us oweth thanks?— —Doth the giver not owe thanks because the receiver re- ceived? Is bestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not—pity- ing?”’ O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine over-abundance itself now stretcheth out longing hands! Thy fulness looketh forth over raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth: the longing of over-fulness looketh forth from the smiling heaven of thine eyes! And verily, O my suul! Who could see thy smiling and not melt into tears? The angels themselves melt into tears through the over-graciousness of thy smiling. Thy graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain and weep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs. “Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, ac- cusing?’’ Thus speakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather smile than pour forth thy grief—- —Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife! But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy, then wilt thou have to séng, O my soul!—Behold. ™ smile myself, who foretell thee this: THE GREAT LONGING 251 —Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing,— —Until over calm longing seas the bark giideth, the golden marvel, around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvel- lous things frisk:— —Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths,— —Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife,— —Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one -—for whom future songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the fragrance of future songs,— —Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest thou thirstily at all deep echoing wells of consolation, aiready re- poseth thy melancholy in the bliss of future songs! — — O my soul, now have f given thee all, and even my last possession, and all my hands have become empty by thee: —that I bade thee sing, behold, that was my last thing to give! That I bade thee sing,—say now, say: which of us now— oweth thanks?—Better still, however: sing unte me, sing, O wy soul! And let me thank thee!— Thus spake Zarathustra. 252 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 459. The Second Dance Song 1 “INTO thine eyes gazed I lately, O Life: gold saw I gleam in thy night-eyes,—my neart stood still with delight: —A golden bark saw I gleam on darkened waters, a sinking, drinking, reblinking, golden swing-bark! At my dance-fraatic foot, dost thou cast a glance, a laughing, questioning, melting, thrown glance: Twice only movedst thou thy rattle with thy little hands— then did my feet swing with dance-fury.— My heels reared aloft, my toes they hearkened,—thee they would know: hath not the dancer his ear—in his toe! Unto thee did I spring: then fledst thou back from my bound; and towards me waved thy fleeing, flying tresses round! Away from thee did I spring, and from thy snaky tresses: then stoodst thou there half-turned, and in thine eye caresses. With crooked glances—dost thou teach me crooked courses; on crooked courses learn my feet—crafty fancies! I fear thee near, I love thee far; thy flight allureth me, thy seeking secureth me:—I suffer, but for thee, what would I not gladly bear! For thee, whose coldness inflameth, whose hatred mislead- eth, whose flight enchaineth, whose mockery—pleadeth: —Who would not hate thee, thou great bindress, in- windress, temptress, seekress, findress! Who would not love thee, thou innocent, impatient, wind-swift, child-eyed sinner! Whither pullest thou me now, thou paragon and tomboy? And now foolest thou me fleeing; thou sweet romp dost annoy: THE SECOND DANCE SONG 253 I dance after thee, I follow even faint traces lonely. Where art thou? Give me thy hand! Or thy finger only! Here are caves and thickets: we shall go astray!—Halt! Stand still! Seest thou not owls and bats in fluttering fray? Thou bat! Thou owl! Thou wouldst play me foul? Where are we? From the dogs hast thou learned thus to bark and howl. Thou gnashest on me sweetly with little white teeth; thine evil eyes shoot out upon me, thy curly little mane from under- neath! This is a dance over stock and stone: I am the hunter,—wint thou be my hound, or my chamois anon? Now beside me! And quickly, wickedly springing! Now up! And over!—Alas! I have fallen myself overswinging! Oh, see me lying, thou arrogant one, and imploring grace: Gladly would I walk with thee—in some lovelier place! —In the paths of love, through bushes variegated, quiet, trim! Or there along the lake, where gold-fishes dance and swim! ‘Thou art now a-weary? There above are sheep and sun-set stripes: is it not sweet to sleep—the shepherd pipes? Thou art so very weary? IJ carry thee thither; let just thine arm sink! And art thou thirsty—I should have something; but thy mouth would not like it to drink! — —Oh, that cursed, nimble, supple serpent and lurking- witch! Where art thou gone? But in my face do I feel through thy hand, two spots and red blotches itch! Iam verily weary of it, ever thy sheepish shepherd to be Thou witch, if I have hitherto sung unto thee, now shalt thou —cry unto me! To the rhythm of my whip shalt thou dance and cry! 1 for: get not my whip?—Not I!’’— 254 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 2 Then did Life answer me thus, and kept thereby her fine ear closed: “O Zarathustra! Crack not so terribly with thy whip! Thou knowest surely that noise killeth thought,—and just now there came to me such delicate thoughts. We are both of us genuine ne’er-do-wells and ne’er-do-ills. Beyond good and evil found we our island and our green meadow—we two alone! Therefore must we be friendly to each other! And even should we not love each other from the bottom of our hearts,—must we then have a grudge against each other if we do not love each other perfectly? And that f am friendly to thee, and often too friendly, that knowest thou: and the reason is that I am envious of thy W1s- dom. Ah, this mad old fool, Wisdom! If thy Wisdom should one day run away from thee, ah! then would also my love run away from thee quickly.” — Thereupon did Life look thoughtfully behind and around, and said softly: “O Zarathustra, thou art not faithful enough to me! Thou lovest me not nearly so much as thou sayest; I know thou thinkest of soon leaving me. There is an old heavy, heavy, booming-clock: it boometh by night up to thy cave:— —When thou hearest this clock strike the hours at midnight, then thinkest thou between one and twelve thereon— —-Thou thinkest thereon, O Zarathustra, J know tt—of soon leaving me!’’— THE SECOND DANCE SONG 255 ‘‘Yea,~ answered I, hesitatingly, ‘but thou knowest it also" ~~And I said something into her ear, in amongst her confused, yellow, foolish tresses. “Thou &nowest that, O Zarathustra? That knoweth no OC + — 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 wian all my Wisdom had ever been.— Thus spake Zarathustra. ee One! O man! Take heed! Two! What saith deep midnight’s voice indeed? Three! “I slept my sleep— Four! "From deepest dream I’ve woke and pleaa:- Five! “The world is deep, Six! “And deeper than the day could read. 256 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Seven! “Deep is its woe— Eight! ‘‘Joy—deeper still than grief can be: Nine! “Woe saith: Hence! Go! Ten! “Rut joys all want eternity— Eleven! ‘“W ant deep profound eternity!” Twelve! Go. The Seven Seals (OR THE YEA AND AMEN LAY.) 1 IF 1 be a diviner and full of the divining spirit which wan- dereth on high mountain-ridges, ’twixt two seas,— Wandereth ’twixt the past and the future as a heavy cloud— hostile to sultry plains, and to all that is weary and can neither die nor five: Ready for lightning in its dark bosom, and for the redeem- THE SEVEN SEALS | 257 ing flash of light, charged with lightnings which say Yea! which laugh Yea! ready for divining flashes of lightning: — —Blessed, however, is he who ts thus charged! And verily, iong must he hang like z leavy tempest on the mountain, who shall one day kindle the light of the future! — Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity and for the mar- riage-ring of rings—the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be this waman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity! 2 If ever my wrath hath burst graves, shifted landmarks, or rolled old shattered tables into precipitous depths: If ever my scorn hath scattered mouldered words to the winds, and if I have come like a besom to cross-spiders, and as a cleansing wind to old charnel-houses: If ever I have sat rejoicing where old gods lie buried, world-blessing, world-loving, beside the monuments of old world-maligners:— —For even churches and gods’-graves do I love, if only heaven looketh through their ruined roofs with pure eyes; gladly do I sit like grass and red poppies on ruined churches-— Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of rings—the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity! 258 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA o a © It ever a breath hath come to me of the creative breath. and of the heavenly necessity which compelleth even chances to dance star-dances: If ever I have laughed with the laughter of the creative lightning, to which the long thunder of the deed followeth, grumblingly, but obediently: If ever I have played dice with the gods at the divine table of the earth, so that the earth quaked and ruptured, and snorted forth fire-streams:— —For a divine table is the earth, and trembling with new Creative dictums and dice-casts of the gods: Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of rings—the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity! 4 If ever I have drunk a full draught of the foaming spice- and confection-bowl in which all things are well mixed: If ever my hand hath mingled the furthest with the nearest, fire with spirit, joy with sorrow, and the harshest with the kindest: If I myself am a grain of the saving salt which maketh every’ thing in the confection-bowl mix well:— THE SEVEN SEALS 259 —For there is a salt which uniteth good with evil; and even the evilest is worthy, as spicing and as final over-foaming:— Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of rings—the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity! 5 If I be fond of the sea, and all that is sealike, and fondest of it when it angrily contradicteth me: If the exploring delight be in me, which impelleth sails to the undiscovered, if the seafarer’s delight be in my delight: If ever my rejoicing hath called out: “The shore hath vanished,—now hath fallen from me the last chain— The boundless roareth around me, far away sparkle for me space and time,—well! cheer up! old heart!’’— Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of rings—the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Eternity! 6 If my virtue be a dancer's virtue, and if I have often sprung with both feet intc golden-emerald rapture: 260 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA If my wickedness be a laughing wickedness, at home among rose-banks and hedges of lilies: 3 —-or in laughter is all evil present, but it is sanctified ana absolved by its own bliss: — And if it be my Alpha and Omega that everything heavy shail become light, everybody a dancer, and every spirit a bird: and verily, that is my Alpha and Omega!— Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the mar- riage-ring of rings—che ring of the return? Never yet have 1 found the woman by whom I should like te have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I ove thee, O Eternity! For I love thee, O Evernity! ” it ever I have spread out a tranquil heaven above me, and have flown into mine own heaven with mine own pinions: If i have swum playfully in profound luminous distances, and if my freedom’s avian wisdom hath come to me:— —Thus however speaketh avian wisdom:—" Lo, there is no above and no below! ‘linrow thyself about,—outward, back- ward, thou light one! Sing! speak no more! —Are not all words made for the heavy? Do not all words lie to the light ones? Sing! speak no more!’ — Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring ot rimnys—the ring of the return? Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity! Hor I love thee, O Eternity! HUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA ¥OURTH AND LAST PART Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the piti- ful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the follies of the pitiful ? Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their pity! ‘Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: “Ever God hath his hell: it is his love for man.” And lately did I hear him say these words: “God is dead: of his pity for man hath God died.” —ZARATHUSTRA, ML, “The Pitiful” (p. 102). ra 61. The Honey Sacrifice -—ANL 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 thought- fully round about him, and at last set themselves in front of him. ““O Zarathustra,’ said they, “gazest thou out perhaps for thy happiness?”’—“Of what account is my happiness!” answered he, “I have long ceased to strive any more for happiness, I strive for my work.’’—'‘O Zarathustra,’’ said the animals once more, “that sayest thou as one who hath overmuch of good things. Liest thou not in a sky-blue lake of happiness?’’—"“"Ye wags,” answered Zarathustra, and smiled, “how well did ye choose the simile! But ye know also that my happiness ts heavy, and not like a fluid wave of water: it presseth me and will not leave me, and is like molten pitch.” — Then went his animals again thoughtfully around him, and placed themselves once more in front of him. ‘O Zarathustra,” said they, “it is consequently for that reason that thou thy- self always becometh yellower and darker, although thy hair jooketh 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 263 264 THUS SPAKE ZAKATHOSTRA 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 today ascend a high mountain? The air is pure, and today one seeth more of the world than ever.’’—“Yea, mine animals,” answered he, “‘ye counsel admirably and according to ty heart: I will today ascend a high mountain! But see that honey is there ready te hand, yellow, white, good, ice-cool, golden-comb-honey. For know that when aloft I will make the honey-sacrifice.’’— When Zarathustra, however, was aloft on the summit, he. sent his animals home that had accompanied him, and found that he was now alone:—then he laughed from the bottom of his heart, looked around him, and spake thus: That I spake of sacrifices and honey-sacrifices, it was merely a ruse in talking and verity, a useful folly! Here aloft can I now speak freer than in front of mountain-caves and ancho- rites’ domestic animals. What to sacrifice! I squander what is given me, a squan- derer with a thousand hands: how could I call that—sacri- ficing? And when I desired honey I only desired bait, and sweet mucus and mucilage, for which even the mouths of growling bears, and strange, sulky, evil birds, water: —The best bait, as huntsmen and fishermen require it. For if the world be as a gloomy forest of animals, and a pleasure- ground for all wild huntsmen, it seemeth to me rather—and preferably—a fathomless, rich sea; —A sea full of many-hued fishes and crabs, for which even the gods might long, and might be tempted to become fishers THE HONEY SACRIFICE 265 in it, and casters of nets,—so rich is the world in wonderful things, great and small! Especially the human world, the human sea:—towards ## do I now throw out my golden angle-rod and say: Open up, thou human abyss! Open up, and throw unto me thy fish and shining crabs! With my best bait shall I allure to myself today the strangest human fish! —My happiness itself do I throw out into all places far and wide ’twixt orient, noontide, and occident, to see if many human fish will not learn to hug and tug at my happiness;— Until, biting at my sharp hidden hooks, they have to come up unto my height, the motleyest abyss-groundlings, to the wickedest of all fishers of men. For this am I from the heart and from the beginning— drawing, hither-drawing, upward-drawing, upbringing; a drawer, a trainer, a training-master, who not in vain coun- selled himself once on a time: “Become what thou art!”’ Thus may men now come #p to me; for as yet do I await the signs that it is time for my down-going; as yet do I not myself go down, as I must do, amongst men. Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high mountains, no impatient one, no patient one; rather one who hath even unlearnt patience,—because he no longer ““suffereth,”’ For my fate giveth me time: it hath forgotten me perhaps? Or doth it sit behind a big stone and catch flies? And verily, I am well-disposed to mine eternal fate, be- cause 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. 266. THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA 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 bn and green and yellow— o —A posturing wrath- snorter with ae, a 1 holy how!l- storm from the mountains, an impatient one that shouteth down into the valleys: Heron else I will scourge you with the scourge of God!” Not that I would have a grudge against such wrathful ones on that account: they are well enough for laughter to me! Impatient must they now be, those big alarm-drums, which find a voice now or never! Myself, however, and my eee do not talk to the Present, neither do we talk to the Never: for talking we have patience and time and more than time. For one day must it yet come, and may not pass by. _ What must one day come and may not pass by? Our great Hazar, that is to say, our great, remote human-kingdom, the Zarathustra-kingdom of a thousand years— — How remote may such ‘remoteness’ be? What doth it concern me? But on that account it is none the less sure unto me—, with both feet stand I secure on this ground; —On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on this highest, hardest, primary mountain-ridge, unto which all winds come, as unto the storm-parting, asking Where? and Whence? and Whither? Here laugh, laugh, my hearty, healthy wickedness! From high mountains cast down thy glittering scorn-laughter! Allure for me with thy glittering the finest human fish! And whatever belongeth unto me in all seas, my in-and- ror-me in all things—fish ¢hat out for me, bring ¢4at up to me: for that do I wait, the wickedest of all fish-catchers. THE CRY OF DISTRESS 267 Out! out! my fishing-hook! In and down, thou bait of my happiness! Drip thy sweetest dew, thou honey of my heart! Bite, my fishing-hook, into the belly of all black affliction! Look out, look out, mine eye! Oh, how many seas round about me, what dawning human futures! And above me— what rosy red stillness! What unclouded silence! 62. The Cry of Distress THE next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone in front of his cave, whilst his animals roved about in the world outside to bring home new food,—also new honey: for Zarathustra had spent and wasted the old honey to the very last particle. When he thus sat, however, with a stick in his hand, tracing the shadow of his figure on the earth, and reflecting—verily! not upon himself and his shadow,—all at once he startled and shrank back: for he saw another shadow beside his own. And when he hastily looked around and stood up, behold, there stood the soothsayer beside him, the same whom he had once given to eat and drink at his table, the proclaimer of the great weariness, who taught: ‘‘All is alike, nothing is worth while, the world is without meaning, knowledge strangleth.” But his face had changed since then; and when Zarathustra looked into his eyes, his heart was startled once more: so much evil announcement and ashy-grey lightnings passed over that coun- tenance. The soothsayer, who had perceived what went on in Zara- thustra’s soul, wiped his face with his hand, as if he would wipe out the impression; the same did also Zarathustra. And 268 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA when both of them had thus silently composed and strength- ened themselves, they gave each other the hand, as a token that they wanted once more to recognise each other. “Welcome hither,” said Zarathustra, ‘thou soothsayer of the great weariness, not in vain shalt thou once have been my messmate and guest. Eat and drink also with me to-day, and forgive it that a cheerful old man sitteth with thee at table!” — ‘A cheerful old man?’’ answered the soothsayer, shaking his head, “‘but whoever thou art, or wouldst be, O Zarathustra, thou hast been here aloft the longest time,—in a little while thy bark shall no longer rest on dry land!’’—"Do 1 then rest on dry land?”—asked Zarathustra, laughing.—‘The waves around thy mountain,’ answered the soothsayer, ‘‘rise and rise, the waves of great distress and affliction: they will soon raise thy bark also and carry thee away.’—Thereupon was Zarathustra silent and wondered.—‘‘Dost thou still hear nothing?” continued the soothsayer: “doth it not rush and roar out of the depth?”—Zarathustra was silent once more and listened: then heard he a long, long cry, which the abysses threw to one another and passed on; for none of them wished to retain it: so evil did it sound. “Thou ill announcer,” said Zarathustra at last, ‘that is a cry of distress, and the cry of a man; it may come perhaps out of a black sea. But what doth human distress matter to me! My last sin which hath been reserved for me,—-knowest thou what it 1s called?” —"Pity!’”’ answered the soothsayer from an overflowing heart, and raised both his hands aloft—‘‘O Zarathustra, J have come that I may seduce thee to thy last sin!” — And hardly had those words been uttered when there sounded the cry once more, and longer and more alarming THE CRY OF DISTRESS 265 than before—also much nearer. ““Hearest thou? Hearest thou, O Zarathustra?” called out the soothsayer, ‘‘the cry concerneth tnee, it calleth thee: Come, come, come; it is time, it is the highest time!’’— Zarathustra was silent thereupon, confused and staggered; at last he asked, like one who hesitateth in himself: ‘““And who is it that there calleth me?”’ “But thou knowest it, certainly,’ answered the soothsayer warmly, “why dost thou conceal thyself? It is the higher man that crieth for thee!” “The higher man?” cried Zarathustra, horror-stricken: “what wanteth be? What wanteth be? The higher man! What wanteth he here?’’—and his skin covered with perspiration. The soothsayer, however, did not heed Zarathustra’s alarm, but listened and listened in the downward direction. When, however, it had been still there for a long while, he looked behind, and saw Zarathustra standing trembling. “O Zarathustra,’ he began, with sorrowful voice, “thou dost not stand there like one whose happiness maketh him giddy: thou wilt have to dance lest thou tumble down! But although thou shouldst dance before me, and leap all thy side-leaps, no one may say unto me: ‘Behold, here danceth the last joyous man!’ In vain would any one come to this height who sought Aim here: caves would he find, indeed, and back-caves, hiding- places for hidden ones; but not lucky mines, nor treasure. chambers, nor new gold-veins of happiness. Happiness—how indeed could one find happiness among such buried-alive and solitary ones! Must I yet seek the last happiness on the Happy Isles, and far away among forgotten seas? 99 270 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA But all is alike, nothing is worth while, no seeking is of service, there are no longer any Happy Isles!”—- — Thus sighed the soothsayer; with his last sigh, however, Zarathustra again became serene and assured, like one who hath come out of a deep chasm into the light. “Nay! Nay! Three times Nay!” exclaimed he with a strong voice, and stroked his beard—“that do I know better! There are still Happy Isles! Silence thereon, thou sighing sorrow-sack! Cease to splash thereon, thou rain-cloud of the forenoon! Do I not already stand here wet with thy misery, and drenched like a dog? Now do I shake myself and run away from thee, that I may again become dry: thereat mayest thou not wonder! Do I seem to thee discourteous? Here however 1s zy court. But as regards the higher man: well! I shall seek him at once in those forests: from thence came his cry. Perhaps he ts there hard beset by an evil beast. He is in my domain: therein shall he receive no scath! And verily, there are many evil beasts about me.’’— With those words Zarathustra turned around to depart. Then said the soothsayer: ““O Zarathustra, thou art a rogue! I know it well: thou wouldst fain be rid of me! Rather wouldst thou run into the forest and lay snares for evil beasts! But what good will it do thee? In the evening wilt thou have me again: in thine own cave will I sit, patient and heavy like a block—and wait for thee!”’ ‘So be it!”” shouted back Zarathustra, as he went away: “and what is mine in my cave belongeth also unto thee, my guest! Shouldst thou however find honey therein, well! just lick it up, thou growling bear, and sweeten thy soul! For in the eve- ning we want both to be in good spirits; TALK WITH THE KINGS 271 —In good spirits and joyful, because this day hath come to an end! And thou thyself shalt dance to my lays, as my dancing- bear. Thou dost not believe this? Thou shakest day head? MVE Cheer up, old bear! But I also—am a soothsayer.” Thus spake Zarathustra. 63. Talk with the Kings I ERE Zarathustra had been an hour on his way in the moun- tains 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 varie- gated like flamingoes: they drove before them a laden ass. ‘What do these kings want in my domain?” said Zarathustra in astonishment to his heart, and hid himself hastily behind a thicket. When however the kings approached to him, he said half-aloud, like one speaking only to himself: “Strange! Strange! How doth this harmonise? Two kings do I see—and only one ass!” Thereupon the two kings made a halt; they smiled and looked towards the spot whence the voice proceeded, and afterwards looked into each other's faces. ‘‘Such things do we also think among ourselves,’’ said the king on the right, “but we do not utter them.” The king on the left, however, shrugged his shoulders and 272 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA answered: “That may perhaps be a goat-herd. Or an anchorite who hath lived too long among rocks and trees. For no society at all spoileth also good manners.” “Good manners?” replied angrily and bitterly the other king: “what then do we run out of the way of? Is it not ‘good manners’? Our ‘good society’ ? Better, verily, to live among anchorites and goat-herds, than with our gilded, false, over-rouged populace—though it call itself ‘good society.’ —Though it call itself ‘nobility.’ But there all is false and foul, above all the blood—thanks to old evil diseases and worse curers. The best and dearest to me at present is still a sound peasant, coatse, artful, obstinate and enduring: that is at present the noblest type. The peasant is at present the best; and the peasant type should be master! But it is the kingdom of the populace—I no longer allow anything to be imposed upon me. The populace, however—that meaneth, hodgepodge. Populace-hodgepodge: therein is everything mixed with everything, saint and swindler, gentleman and Jew, and every beast out of Noah’s ark. Good manners! Everything is false and foul with us. No one knoweth any longer how to reverence: it is that precisely that we run away from. They are fulsome obtrusive dogs; they gild palm-leaves. This loathing choketh me, that we kings ourselves have be- come false, draped and disguised with the old faded pomp of our ancestors, show-pieces for the stupidest, the craftiest, and whosoever at present trafficketh for power. We are not the first men—and have nevertheless to stand for TALK WITH THE KINGS 273 them: of this imposture have we at last become weary and disgusted. From the rabble have we gone out of the way, from all those bawlers and scribe-blowflies, from the trader-stench, the ambi- tion-fidgeting, the bad breath—-: fie, to live among the rabble; —Fie, to stand for the first men among the rabble! Ah, loathing! Loathing! Loathing! What doth it now matter about us kings!”’— “Thine old sickness seizeth thee,” said here the king on the left, “thy loathing seizeth thee, my poor brother. Thou knowest, however, that some one heareth us.” Immediately thereupon, Zarathustra, who had opened ears and eyes to this talk, rose from his hiding-place, advanced towards the kings, and thus began: ‘‘He who hearkeneth unto you, he who gladly hearkeneth unto you, is called Zarathustra. I am Zarathustra who once said: “What doth it now matter about kings!’ Forgive me; I rejoiced when ye said to each other: ‘What doth it matter about us kings!’ Here, however, is 77y domain and jurisdiction: what may ye be seeking in my domain? Perhaps, however, ye have found on your way what I seek: namely, the higher man.”’ When the kings heard this, they beat upon their breasts and said with one voice: ‘““We are recognised! With the sword of thine utterance severest thou the thickest darkness of our hearts. Thou hast discovered our distress; for lo! we are on our way to find the higher man— —The man that is higher than we, although we are kings. To him do we convey this ass. For the highest man shall also be the highest lord on earth. There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny, than when the mighty of the earth are not also the first men. Then 274 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA everything becometh false and distorted and monstrous. And when they are even the last men, and more beast than man, then riseth and riseth the populace in honour, and at last saith even the populace-virtue: ‘Lo, I alone am virtue!’ ”’— What have I just heard? answered Zarathustra. What wis- dom in kings! I am enchanted, and verily, I have already promptings to make a rhyme thereon:— —Even if it should happen to be a rhyme not suited for every one’s ears. I unlearned long ago to have consideration for long ears. Well then! Well now! (Here, however, it happened that the ass also found utter- ance: it said distinctly and with malevolence, Y-E-A.) "Twas once—methinks year one of our blessed Lord,— Drunk without wine, the Sybil thus deplored: — ‘How ill things go! Decline! Decline! Ne’er sank the world so low! Rome now hath turned harlot and harlot-stew, Rome’s Cesar a beast, and God—hath turned Jew!” 2 With those rhymes of Zarathustra the kings were delighted; the king on the right, however, said: “O Zarathustra, how well it was that we set out to see thee! For thine enemies showed us thy likeness in their.mirror: there lookedst thou with the grimace ot a devil, and sneer- ingly: so that we were afraid of thee. But what good did it do! Always didst thou prick us anew in heart and ear with thy sayings. Then did we say at last: What doth it matter how he look! TALK WITH THE KINGS 275 We must /ear him; him who teacheth: “Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars, and the short peace more than the fong!’ No one ever spake such warlike words: “What is good? To be brave is good. It is the good war that halloweth every cause.’ O Zarathustra, our fathers’ blood stirred in our veins at such words: it was like the voice of spring to old wine-casks. When the swords ran among one another like red-spotted serpents, then did our fathers become fond of life; the sun of every peace seemed to them languid and lukewarm, the long peace, however, made them ashamed. How they sighed, our fathers, when they saw on the wall brightly furbished, dried-up swords! Like those they thirsted for war. For a sword thirsteth to drink blood, and sparkleth with desire.’’-— — —When the kings thus discoursed and talked eagerly of the happiness of their fathers, there came upon Zarathustra no little desire to mock at their eagerness: for evidently they were very peaceable kings whom he saw before him, kings with old and refined features. But he restrained himself. ‘“Well!”’ said he, ‘‘thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zara- thustra; and this day is to have a long evening! At present, however, a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from you. It will honour my cave if kings want to sit and wait in it’ but, to be sure, ye will have to wait long! Well! What of that! Where doth one at present learn better to wait than at courts? And the whole virtue of kings that hath remained unto them—is it not called to-day: Abzlity to wait?” Thus spake Zarathustra, 270 THUS SPARE ZARATHUSTRA 64. The Leech AND Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further and lower down, through forests and past moory bottoms; as it hap- peneth, however, to every one who meditateth upon hara matters, he trod thereby unawares upon a man. And lo, there spurted into his face all at once a cry of pain, and two curses and twenty bad invectives, so that in his fright he raised his stick and also struck the trodden one. Immediately afterwards, however, he regained his composure, and his heart laughed at the folly he had just committed. ‘Pardon me,’ said he to the trodden one, who had got up enraged, and had seated himself, ‘‘pardon me, and hear first of all a parable. As a wanderer who dreameth of remote things on a lone- some highway, runneth unawares against a sleeping dog, a dog which lieth in the sun: —As both of them then start up and snap at each other, like deadly enemies, those two beings mortally frightened—so did it happen unto us. And yet! And yet—how little was lacking for them to caress each other, that dog and that lonesome one! Are they not both—lonesome ones!” —‘‘Whoever thou art,” said the trodden one, still enraged, ‘thou treadest also too nigh me with thy parable, and not only with thy foot! Lo! am I then a dog?””—And thereupon the sitting one got up, and pulled his naked arm out of the swamp. For at first he had Jain outstretched on the ground, hidden and indis- cernible, like those who lie in wait for swamp-game. THE LEECH 277 “But whatever art thou about!’ called out Zarathustra in alarm, for he saw a deal of blood streaming over the naked arm,—‘‘what hath hurt thee? Hath an evil beast bit thee thou unfortunate one?”’ The bleeding one laughed, still angry, “What matter is it to thee!” said he, and was about to go on. “Here am I at home and in my province. Let him question me whoever will: to a dolt, however, I shall hardly answer.” “Thou art mistaken,” said Zarathustra sympathetically, and held him fast; ‘‘thou art mistaken. Here thou art not at home, but in my domain, and therein shall no one receive any hurt. Call me however what thou wilt—I am who I must be. I call myself Zarathustra. Well! Up thither is the way to Zarathustra’s cave: it is not far,—wilt thou not attend to thy wounds at my home? It hath gone badly with thee, thou unfortunate one, in this life: first a beast bit thee, and then—a man trod upon thee!’ — When however the trodden one had heard the name of Zarathustra he was transformed. “What happeneth unto me!” he exclaimed, ‘who preoccupieth me so much in this life as this one man, namely Zarathustra, and that one animal that liveth on blood, the leech? For the sake of the leech did I lie here by this swamp, like a fisher, and already had mine outstretched arm been bitten ten times, when there biteth a still finer leech at my blood, Zarathustra himself! O happiness! O miracle! Praised be this day which enticed me into the swamp! Praised be the best, the livest cupping- glass, that at present liveth; praised be the great conscience- leech Zarathustra!’’— 278 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA Thus spake the trodden one, and Zarathustra rejoiced at his words and their refined reverential style. ‘““Who art thou?’ asked he, and gave him his hand, ‘‘there is much to clear up and elucidate between us, but already methinketh pure clear day is dawning.” “I am the spiritually conscientious one,’’ answered he who was asked, ‘‘and in matters of the spirit it is difficult for any one to take it more rigorously, more restrictedly, and more severely than I, except him from whom I learnt it, Zarathustra himself. Better know nothing than half-know many things! Better be a fool on one’s own account, than a sage on other people’s approbation! I—go to the basis: —What matter if it be great or small? If it be called swamp or sky? A handbreadth of basis is enough for me, if it be actually basis and ground! —A