THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA.



FIRST PART. ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES.



ZARATHUSTRA’S PROLOGUE.

1.

When Zarathustra was thirty years old,
he left his home and the lake of his
home, and went into the mountains. There
he enjoyed his spirit and solitude, and
for ten years did not weary of it. But
at last his heart changed,--and rising
one morning with the rosy dawn, he went
before the sun, and spake thus unto
it:

Thou great star! What would be thy
happiness if thou hadst not those for
whom thou shinest!

For ten years hast thou climbed hither
unto my cave: thou wouldst have wearied
of thy light and of the journey, had it
not been for me, mine eagle, and my
serpent.

But we awaited thee every morning, took
from thee thine overflow and blessed
thee for it.

Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the
bee that hath gathered too much honey; I
need hands outstretched to take it.

I would fain bestow and distribute,
until the wise have once more become
joyous in their folly, and the poor
happy in their riches.

Therefore must I descend into the deep:
as thou doest in the evening, when thou
goest behind the sea, and givest light
also to the nether-world, thou exuberant
star!

Like thee must I GO DOWN, as men say, to
whom I shall descend.

Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that
canst behold even the greatest happiness
without envy!

Bless the cup that is about to overflow,
that the water may flow golden out of
it, and carry everywhere the reflection
of thy bliss!

Lo! This cup is again going to empty
itself, and Zarathustra is again going
to be a man.

Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.

2.

Zarathustra went down the mountain
alone, no one meeting him. When he
entered the forest, however, there
suddenly stood before him an old man,
who had left his holy cot to seek roots.
And thus spake the old man to
Zarathustra:

“No stranger to me is this wanderer:
many years ago passed he by. Zarathustra
he was called; but he hath altered.

Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the
mountains: wilt thou now carry thy fire
into the valleys? Fearest thou not the
incendiary’s doom?

Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is
his eye, and no loathing lurketh about
his mouth. Goeth he not along like a
dancer?

Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath
Zarathustra become; an awakened one is
Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the
land of the sleepers?

As in the sea hast thou lived in
solitude, and it hath borne thee up.
Alas, wilt thou now go ashore? Alas,
wilt thou again drag thy body
thyself?”

Zarathustra answered: “I love
mankind.”

“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into
the forest and the desert? Was it not
because I loved men far too well?

Now I love God: men, I do not love. Man
is a thing too imperfect for me. Love to
man would be fatal to me.”

Zarathustra answered: “What spake I of
love! I am bringing gifts unto men.”

“Give them nothing,” said the saint.
“Take rather part of their load, and
carry it along with them--that will be
most agreeable unto them: if only it be
agreeable unto thee!

If, however, thou wilt give unto them,
give them no more than an alms, and let
them also beg for it!”

“No,” replied Zarathustra, “I give no
alms. I am not poor enough for that.”

The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and
spake thus: “Then see to it that they
accept thy treasures! They are
distrustful of anchorites, and do not
believe that we come with gifts.

The fall of our footsteps ringeth too
hollow through their streets. And just
as at night, when they are in bed and
hear a man abroad long before sunrise,
so they ask themselves concerning us:
Where goeth the thief?

Go not to men, but stay in the forest!
Go rather to the animals! Why not be
like me--a bear amongst bears, a bird
amongst birds?”

“And what doeth the saint in the
forest?” asked Zarathustra.

The saint answered: “I make hymns and
sing them; and in making hymns I laugh
and weep and mumble: thus do I praise
God.

With singing, weeping, laughing, and
mumbling do I praise the God who is my
God. But what dost thou bring us as a
gift?”

When Zarathustra had heard these words,
he bowed to the saint and said: “What
should I have to give thee! Let me
rather hurry hence lest I take aught
away from thee!”--And thus they parted
from one another, the old man and
Zarathustra, laughing like schoolboys.

When Zarathustra was alone, however, he
said to his heart: “Could it be
possible! This old saint in the forest
hath not yet heard of it, that GOD IS
DEAD!”

3.

When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest
town which adjoineth the forest, he
found many people assembled in the
market-place; for it had been announced
that a rope-dancer would give a
performance. And Zarathustra spake thus
unto the people:

I TEACH YOU THE SUPERMAN. Man is
something that is to be surpassed. What
have ye done to surpass man?

All beings hitherto have created
something beyond themselves: and ye want
to be the ebb of that great tide, and
would rather go back to the beast than
surpass man?

What is the ape to man? A
laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And
just the same shall man be to the
Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of
shame.

Ye have made your way from the worm to
man, and much within you is still worm.
Once were ye apes, and even yet man is
more of an ape than any of the apes.

Even the wisest among you is only a
disharmony and hybrid of plant and
phantom. But do I bid you become
phantoms or plants?

Lo, I teach you the Superman!

The Superman is the meaning of the
earth. Let your will say: The Superman
SHALL BE the meaning of the earth!

I conjure you, my brethren, REMAIN TRUE
TO THE EARTH, and believe not those who
speak unto you of superearthly hopes!
Poisoners are they, whether they know it
or not.

Despisers of life are they, decaying
ones and poisoned ones themselves, of
whom the earth is weary: so away with
them!

Once blasphemy against God was the
greatest blasphemy; but God died, and
therewith also those blasphemers. To
blaspheme the earth is now the
dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart
of the unknowable higher than the
meaning of the earth!

Once the soul looked contemptuously on
the body, and then that contempt was the
supreme thing:--the soul wished the body
meagre, ghastly, and famished. Thus it
thought to escape from the body and the
earth.

Oh, that soul was itself meagre,
ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was
the delight of that soul!

But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What
doth your body say about your soul? Is
your soul not poverty and pollution and
wretched self-complacency?

Verily, a polluted stream is man. One
must be a sea, to receive a polluted
stream without becoming impure.

Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that
sea; in him can your great contempt be
submerged.

What is the greatest thing ye can
experience? It is the hour of great
contempt. The hour in which even your
happiness becometh loathsome unto you,
and so also your reason and virtue.

The hour when ye say: “What good is my
happiness! It is poverty and pollution
and wretched self-complacency. But my
happiness should justify existence
itself!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my
reason! Doth it long for knowledge as
the lion for his food? It is poverty and
pollution and wretched
self-complacency!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my
virtue! As yet it hath not made me
passionate. How weary I am of my good
and my bad! It is all poverty and
pollution and wretched
self-complacency!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my
justice! I do not see that I am fervour
and fuel. The just, however, are fervour
and fuel!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my
pity! Is not pity the cross on which he
is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is
not a crucifixion.”

Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever
cried thus? Ah! would that I had heard
you crying thus!

It is not your sin--it is your
self-satisfaction that crieth unto
heaven; your very sparingness in sin
crieth unto heaven!

Where is the lightning to lick you with
its tongue? Where is the frenzy with
which ye should be inoculated?

Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that
lightning, he is that frenzy!--

When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of
the people called out: “We have now
heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is
time now for us to see him!” And all the
people laughed at Zarathustra. But the
rope-dancer, who thought the words
applied to him, began his performance.

4.

Zarathustra, however, looked at the
people and wondered. Then he spake
thus:

Man is a rope stretched between the
animal and the Superman--a rope over an
abyss.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous
wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a
dangerous trembling and halting.

What is great in man is that he is a
bridge and not a goal: what is lovable
in man is that he is an OVER-GOING and a
DOWN-GOING.

I love those that know not how to live
except as down-goers, for they are the
over-goers.

I love the great despisers, because they
are the great adorers, and arrows of
longing for the other shore.

I love those who do not first seek a
reason beyond the stars for going down
and being sacrifices, but sacrifice
themselves to the earth, that the earth
of the Superman may hereafter arrive.

I love him who liveth in order to know,
and seeketh to know in order that the
Superman may hereafter live. Thus
seeketh he his own down-going.

I love him who laboureth and inventeth,
that he may build the house for the
Superman, and prepare for him earth,
animal, and plant: for thus seeketh he
his own down-going.

I love him who loveth his virtue: for
virtue is the will to down-going, and an
arrow of longing.

I love him who reserveth no share of
spirit for himself, but wanteth to be
wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus
walketh he as spirit over the bridge.

I love him who maketh his virtue his
inclination and destiny: thus, for the
sake of his virtue, he is willing to
live on, or live no more.

I love him who desireth not too many
virtues. One virtue is more of a virtue
than two, because it is more of a knot
for one’s destiny to cling to.

I love him whose soul is lavish, who
wanteth no thanks and doth not give
back: for he always bestoweth, and
desireth not to keep for himself.

I love him who is ashamed when the dice
fall in his favour, and who then asketh:
“Am I a dishonest player?”--for he is
willing to succumb.

I love him who scattereth golden words
in advance of his deeds, and always
doeth more than he promiseth: for he
seeketh his own down-going.

I love him who justifieth the future
ones, and redeemeth the past ones: for
he is willing to succumb through the
present ones.

I love him who chasteneth his God,
because he loveth his God: for he must
succumb through the wrath of his God.

I love him whose soul is deep even in
the wounding, and may succumb through a
small matter: thus goeth he willingly
over the bridge.

I love him whose soul is so overfull
that he forgetteth himself, and all
things are in him: thus all things
become his down-going.

I love him who is of a free spirit and a
free heart: thus is his head only the
bowels of his heart; his heart, however,
causeth his down-going.

I love all who are like heavy drops
falling one by one out of the dark cloud
that lowereth over man: they herald the
coming of the lightning, and succumb as
heralds.

Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and
a heavy drop out of the cloud: the
lightning, however, is the SUPERMAN.--

5.

When Zarathustra had spoken these words,
he again looked at the people, and was
silent. “There they stand,” said he to
his heart; “there they laugh: they
understand me not; I am not the mouth
for these ears.

Must one first batter their ears, that
they may learn to hear with their eyes?
Must one clatter like kettledrums and
penitential preachers? Or do they only
believe the stammerer?

They have something whereof they are
proud. What do they call it, that which
maketh them proud? Culture, they call
it; it distinguisheth them from the
goatherds.

They dislike, therefore, to hear of
‘contempt’ of themselves. So I will
appeal to their pride.

I will speak unto them of the most
contemptible thing: that, however, is
THE LAST MAN!”

And thus spake Zarathustra unto the
people:

It is time for man to fix his goal. It
is time for man to plant the germ of his
highest hope.

Still is his soil rich enough for it.
But that soil will one day be poor and
exhausted, and no lofty tree will any
longer be able to grow thereon.

Alas! there cometh the time when man
will no longer launch the arrow of his
longing beyond man--and the string of
his bow will have unlearned to whizz!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in
one, to give birth to a dancing star. I
tell you: ye have still chaos in you.

Alas! There cometh the time when man
will no longer give birth to any star.
Alas! There cometh the time of the most
despicable man, who can no longer
despise himself.

Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN.

“What is love? What is creation? What is
longing? What is a star?”--so asketh the
last man and blinketh.

The earth hath then become small, and on
it there hoppeth the last man who maketh
everything small. His species is
ineradicable like that of the
ground-flea; the last man liveth
longest.

“We have discovered happiness”--say the
last men, and blink thereby.

They have left the regions where it is
hard to live; for they need warmth. One
still loveth one’s neighbour and rubbeth
against him; for one needeth warmth.

Turning ill and being distrustful, they
consider sinful: they walk warily. He is
a fool who still stumbleth over stones
or men!

A little poison now and then: that
maketh pleasant dreams. And much poison
at last for a pleasant death.

One still worketh, for work is a
pastime. But one is careful lest the
pastime should hurt one.

One no longer becometh poor or rich;
both are too burdensome. Who still
wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to
obey? Both are too burdensome.

No shepherd, and one herd! Every one
wanteth the same; every one is equal: he
who hath other sentiments goeth
voluntarily into the madhouse.

“Formerly all the world was
insane,”--say the subtlest of them, and
blink thereby.

They are clever and know all that hath
happened: so there is no end to their
raillery. People still fall out, but are
soon reconciled--otherwise it spoileth
their stomachs.

They have their little pleasures for the
day, and their little pleasures for the
night, but they have a regard for
health.

“We have discovered happiness,”--say the
last men, and blink thereby.--

And here ended the first discourse of
Zarathustra, which is also called “The
Prologue”: for at this point the
shouting and mirth of the multitude
interrupted him. “Give us this last man,
O Zarathustra,”--they called out--“make
us into these last men! Then will we
make thee a present of the Superman!”
And all the people exulted and smacked
their lips. Zarathustra, however, turned
sad, and said to his heart:

“They understand me not: I am not the
mouth for these ears.

Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the
mountains; too much have I hearkened
unto the brooks and trees: now do I
speak unto them as unto the goatherds.

Calm is my soul, and clear, like the
mountains in the morning. But they think
me cold, and a mocker with terrible
jests.

And now do they look at me and laugh:
and while they laugh they hate me too.
There is ice in their laughter.”

6.

Then, however, something happened which
made every mouth mute and every eye
fixed. In the meantime, of course, the
rope-dancer had commenced his
performance: he had come out at a little
door, and was going along the rope which
was stretched between two towers, so
that it hung above the market-place and
the people. When he was just midway
across, the little door opened once
more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like
a buffoon sprang out, and went rapidly
after the first one. “Go on, halt-foot,”
cried his frightful voice, “go on,
lazy-bones, interloper,
sallow-face!--lest I tickle thee with my
heel! What dost thou here between the
towers? In the tower is the place for
thee, thou shouldst be locked up; to one
better than thyself thou blockest the
way!”--And with every word he came
nearer and nearer the first one. When,
however, he was but a step behind, there
happened the frightful thing which made
every mouth mute and every eye fixed--he
uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped
over the other who was in his way. The
latter, however, when he thus saw his
rival triumph, lost at the same time his
head and his footing on the rope; he
threw his pole away, and shot downwards
faster than it, like an eddy of arms and
legs, into the depth. The market-place
and the people were like the sea when
the storm cometh on: they all flew apart
and in disorder, especially where the
body was about to fall.

Zarathustra, however, remained standing,
and just beside him fell the body, badly
injured and disfigured, but not yet
dead. After a while consciousness
returned to the shattered man, and he
saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him.
“What art thou doing there?” said he at
last, “I knew long ago that the devil
would trip me up. Now he draggeth me to
hell: wilt thou prevent him?”

“On mine honour, my friend,” answered
Zarathustra, “there is nothing of all
that whereof thou speakest: there is no
devil and no hell. Thy soul will be dead
even sooner than thy body: fear,
therefore, nothing any more!”

The man looked up distrustfully. “If
thou speakest the truth,” said he, “I
lose nothing when I lose my life. I am
not much more than an animal which hath
been taught to dance by blows and scanty
fare.”

“Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “thou
hast made danger thy calling; therein
there is nothing contemptible. Now thou
perishest by thy calling: therefore will
I bury thee with mine own hands.”

When Zarathustra had said this the dying
one did not reply further; but he moved
his hand as if he sought the hand of
Zarathustra in gratitude.

7.

Meanwhile the evening came on, and the
market-place veiled itself in gloom.
Then the people dispersed, for even
curiosity and terror become fatigued.
Zarathustra, however, still sat beside
the dead man on the ground, absorbed in
thought: so he forgot the time. But at
last it became night, and a cold wind
blew upon the lonely one. Then arose
Zarathustra and said to his heart:

Verily, a fine catch of fish hath
Zarathustra made to-day! It is not a man
he hath caught, but a corpse.

Sombre is human life, and as yet without
meaning: a buffoon may be fateful to
it.

I want to teach men the sense of their
existence, which is the Superman, the
lightning out of the dark cloud--man.

But still am I far from them, and my
sense speaketh not unto their sense. To
men I am still something between a fool
and a corpse.

Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways
of Zarathustra. Come, thou cold and
stiff companion! I carry thee to the
place where I shall bury thee with mine
own hands.

8.

When Zarathustra had said this to his
heart, he put the corpse upon his
shoulders and set out on his way. Yet
had he not gone a hundred steps, when
there stole a man up to him and
whispered in his ear--and lo! he that
spake was the buffoon from the tower.
“Leave this town, O Zarathustra,” said
he, “there are too many here who hate
thee. The good and just hate thee, and
call thee their enemy and despiser; the
believers in the orthodox belief hate
thee, and call thee a danger to the
multitude. It was thy good fortune to be
laughed at: and verily thou spakest like
a buffoon. It was thy good fortune to
associate with the dead dog; by so
humiliating thyself thou hast saved thy
life to-day. Depart, however, from this
town,--or tomorrow I shall jump over
thee, a living man over a dead one.” And
when he had said this, the buffoon
vanished; Zarathustra, however, went on
through the dark streets.

At the gate of the town the
grave-diggers met him: they shone their
torch on his face, and, recognising
Zarathustra, they sorely derided him.
“Zarathustra is carrying away the dead
dog: a fine thing that Zarathustra hath
turned a grave-digger! For our hands are
too cleanly for that roast. Will
Zarathustra steal the bite from the
devil? Well then, good luck to the
repast! If only the devil is not a
better thief than Zarathustra!--he will
steal them both, he will eat them both!”
And they laughed among themselves, and
put their heads together.

Zarathustra made no answer thereto, but
went on his way. When he had gone on for
two hours, past forests and swamps, he
had heard too much of the hungry howling
of the wolves, and he himself became
a-hungry. So he halted at a lonely house
in which a light was burning.

“Hunger attacketh me,” said Zarathustra,
“like a robber. Among forests and swamps
my hunger attacketh me, and late in the
night.

“Strange humours hath my hunger. Often
it cometh to me only after a repast, and
all day it hath failed to come: where
hath it been?”

And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the
door of the house. An old man appeared,
who carried a light, and asked: “Who
cometh unto me and my bad sleep?”

“A living man and a dead one,” said
Zarathustra. “Give me something to eat
and drink, I forgot it during the day.
He that feedeth the hungry refresheth
his own soul, saith wisdom.”

The old man withdrew, but came back
immediately and offered Zarathustra
bread and wine. “A bad country for the
hungry,” said he; “that is why I live
here. Animal and man come unto me, the
anchorite. But bid thy companion eat and
drink also, he is wearier than thou.”
Zarathustra answered: “My companion is
dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade
him to eat.” “That doth not concern me,”
said the old man sullenly; “he that
knocketh at my door must take what I
offer him. Eat, and fare ye well!”--

Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for
two hours, trusting to the path and the
light of the stars: for he was an
experienced night-walker, and liked to
look into the face of all that slept.
When the morning dawned, however,
Zarathustra found himself in a thick
forest, and no path was any longer
visible. He then put the dead man in a
hollow tree at his head--for he wanted
to protect him from the wolves--and laid
himself down on the ground and moss. And
immediately he fell asleep, tired in
body, but with a tranquil soul.

9.

Long slept Zarathustra; and not only the
rosy dawn passed over his head, but also
the morning. At last, however, his eyes
opened, and amazedly he gazed into the
forest and the stillness, amazedly he
gazed into himself. Then he arose
quickly, like a seafarer who all at once
seeth the land; and he shouted for joy:
for he saw a new truth. And he spake
thus to his heart:

A light hath dawned upon me: I need
companions--living ones; not dead
companions and corpses, which I carry
with me where I will.

But I need living companions, who will
follow me because they want to follow
themselves--and to the place where I
will.

A light hath dawned upon me. Not to the
people is Zarathustra to speak, but to
companions! Zarathustra shall not be the
herd’s herdsman and hound!

To allure many from the herd--for that
purpose have I come. The people and the
herd must be angry with me: a robber
shall Zarathustra be called by the
herdsmen.

Herdsmen, I say, but they call
themselves the good and just. Herdsmen,
I say, but they call themselves the
believers in the orthodox belief.

Behold the good and just! Whom do they
hate most? Him who breaketh up their
tables of values, the breaker, the
lawbreaker:--he, however, is the
creator.

Behold the believers of all beliefs!
Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh
up their tables of values, the breaker,
the law-breaker--he, however, is the
creator.

Companions, the creator seeketh, not
corpses--and not herds or believers
either. Fellow-creators the creator
seeketh--those who grave new values on
new tables.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and
fellow-reapers: for everything is ripe
for the harvest with him. But he lacketh
the hundred sickles: so he plucketh the
ears of corn and is vexed.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and
such as know how to whet their sickles.
Destroyers, will they be called, and
despisers of good and evil. But they are
the reapers and rejoicers.

Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh;
fellow-reapers and fellow-rejoicers,
Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do
with herds and herdsmen and corpses!

And thou, my first companion, rest in
peace! Well have I buried thee in thy
hollow tree; well have I hid thee from
the wolves.

But I part from thee; the time hath
arrived. ‘Twixt rosy dawn and rosy dawn
there came unto me a new truth.

I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to
be a grave-digger. Not any more will I
discourse unto the people; for the last
time have I spoken unto the dead.

With the creators, the reapers, and the
rejoicers will I associate: the rainbow
will I show them, and all the stairs to
the Superman.

To the lone-dwellers will I sing my
song, and to the twain-dwellers; and
unto him who hath still ears for the
unheard, will I make the heart heavy
with my happiness.

I make for my goal, I follow my course;
over the loitering and tardy will I
leap. Thus let my on-going be their
down-going!

10.

This had Zarathustra said to his heart
when the sun stood at noon-tide. Then he
looked inquiringly aloft,--for he heard
above him the sharp call of a bird. And
behold! An eagle swept through the air
in wide circles, and on it hung a
serpent, not like a prey, but like a
friend: for it kept itself coiled round
the eagle’s neck.

“They are mine animals,” said
Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his
heart.

“The proudest animal under the sun, and
the wisest animal under the sun,--they
have come out to reconnoitre.

They want to know whether Zarathustra
still liveth. Verily, do I still live?

More dangerous have I found it among men
than among animals; in dangerous paths
goeth Zarathustra. Let mine animals lead
me!

When Zarathustra had said this, he
remembered the words of the saint in the
forest. Then he sighed and spake thus to
his heart:

“Would that I were wiser! Would that I
were wise from the very heart, like my
serpent!

But I am asking the impossible.
Therefore do I ask my pride to go always
with my wisdom!

And if my wisdom should some day forsake
me:--alas! it loveth to fly away!--may
my pride then fly with my folly!”

Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.



ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES.



I. THE THREE METAMORPHOSES.

Three metamorphoses of the spirit do I
designate to you: how the spirit
becometh a camel, the camel a lion, and
the lion at last a child.

Many heavy things are there for the
spirit, the strong load-bearing spirit
in which reverence dwelleth: for the
heavy and the heaviest longeth its
strength.

What is heavy? so asketh the
load-bearing spirit; then kneeleth it
down like the camel, and wanteth to be
well laden.

What is the heaviest thing, ye heroes?
asketh the load-bearing spirit, that I
may take it upon me and rejoice in my
strength.

Is it not this: To humiliate oneself in
order to mortify one’s pride? To exhibit
one’s folly in order to mock at one’s
wisdom?

Or is it this: To desert our cause when
it celebrateth its triumph? To ascend
high mountains to tempt the tempter?

Or is it this: To feed on the acorns and
grass of knowledge, and for the sake of
truth to suffer hunger of soul?

Or is it this: To be sick and dismiss
comforters, and make friends of the
deaf, who never hear thy requests?

Or is it this: To go into foul water
when it is the water of truth, and not
disclaim cold frogs and hot toads?

Or is it this: To love those who despise
us, and give one’s hand to the phantom
when it is going to frighten us?

All these heaviest things the
load-bearing spirit taketh upon itself:
and like the camel, which, when laden,
hasteneth into the wilderness, so
hasteneth the spirit into its
wilderness.

But in the loneliest wilderness
happeneth the second metamorphosis: here
the spirit becometh a lion; freedom will
it capture, and lordship in its own
wilderness.

Its last Lord it here seeketh: hostile
will it be to him, and to its last God;
for victory will it struggle with the
great dragon.

What is the great dragon which the
spirit is no longer inclined to call
Lord and God? “Thou-shalt,” is the great
dragon called. But the spirit of the
lion saith, “I will.”

“Thou-shalt,” lieth in its path,
sparkling with gold--a scale-covered
beast; and on every scale glittereth
golden, “Thou shalt!”

The values of a thousand years glitter
on those scales, and thus speaketh the
mightiest of all dragons: “All the
values of things--glitter on me.

All values have already been created,
and all created values--do I represent.
Verily, there shall be no ‘I will’ any
more. Thus speaketh the dragon.

My brethren, wherefore is there need of
the lion in the spirit? Why sufficeth
not the beast of burden, which
renounceth and is reverent?

To create new values--that, even the
lion cannot yet accomplish: but to
create itself freedom for new
creating--that can the might of the lion
do.

To create itself freedom, and give a
holy Nay even unto duty: for that, my
brethren, there is need of the lion.

To assume the right to new values--that
is the most formidable assumption for a
load-bearing and reverent spirit.
Verily, unto such a spirit it is
preying, and the work of a beast of
prey.

As its holiest, it once loved
“Thou-shalt”: now is it forced to find
illusion and arbitrariness even in the
holiest things, that it may capture
freedom from its love: the lion is
needed for this capture.

But tell me, my brethren, what the child
can do, which even the lion could not
do? Why hath the preying lion still to
become a child?

Innocence is the child, and
forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game,
a self-rolling wheel, a first movement,
a holy Yea.

Aye, for the game of creating, my
brethren, there is needed a holy Yea
unto life: ITS OWN will, willeth now the
spirit; HIS OWN world winneth the
world’s outcast.

Three metamorphoses of the spirit have I
designated to you: how the spirit became
a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion
at last a child.--

Thus spake Zarathustra. And at that time
he abode in the town which is called The
Pied Cow.



II. THE ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF VIRTUE.

People commended unto Zarathustra a wise
man, as one who could discourse well
about sleep and virtue: greatly was he
honoured and rewarded for it, and all
the youths sat before his chair. To him
went Zarathustra, and sat among the
youths before his chair. And thus spake
the wise man:

Respect and modesty in presence of
sleep! That is the first thing! And to
go out of the way of all who sleep badly
and keep awake at night!

Modest is even the thief in presence of
sleep: he always stealeth softly through
the night. Immodest, however, is the
night-watchman; immodestly he carrieth
his horn.

No small art is it to sleep: it is
necessary for that purpose to keep awake
all day.

Ten times a day must thou overcome
thyself: that causeth wholesome
weariness, and is poppy to the soul.

Ten times must thou reconcile again with
thyself; for overcoming is bitterness,
and badly sleep the unreconciled.

Ten truths must thou find during the
day; otherwise wilt thou seek truth
during the night, and thy soul will have
been hungry.

Ten times must thou laugh during the
day, and be cheerful; otherwise thy
stomach, the father of affliction, will
disturb thee in the night.

Few people know it, but one must have
all the virtues in order to sleep well.
Shall I bear false witness? Shall I
commit adultery?

Shall I covet my neighbour’s
maidservant? All that would ill accord
with good sleep.

And even if one have all the virtues,
there is still one thing needful: to
send the virtues themselves to sleep at
the right time.

That they may not quarrel with one
another, the good females! And about
thee, thou unhappy one!

Peace with God and thy neighbour: so
desireth good sleep. And peace also with
thy neighbour’s devil! Otherwise it will
haunt thee in the night.

Honour to the government, and obedience,
and also to the crooked government! So
desireth good sleep. How can I help it,
if power like to walk on crooked legs?

He who leadeth his sheep to the greenest
pasture, shall always be for me the best
shepherd: so doth it accord with good
sleep.

Many honours I want not, nor great
treasures: they excite the spleen. But
it is bad sleeping without a good name
and a little treasure.

A small company is more welcome to me
than a bad one: but they must come and
go at the right time. So doth it accord
with good sleep.

Well, also, do the poor in spirit please
me: they promote sleep. Blessed are
they, especially if one always give in
to them.

Thus passeth the day unto the virtuous.
When night cometh, then take I good care
not to summon sleep. It disliketh to be
summoned--sleep, the lord of the
virtues!

But I think of what I have done and
thought during the day. Thus ruminating,
patient as a cow, I ask myself: What
were thy ten overcomings?

And what were the ten reconciliations,
and the ten truths, and the ten
laughters with which my heart enjoyed
itself?

Thus pondering, and cradled by forty
thoughts, it overtaketh me all at
once--sleep, the unsummoned, the lord of
the virtues.

Sleep tappeth on mine eye, and it
turneth heavy. Sleep toucheth my mouth,
and it remaineth open.

Verily, on soft soles doth it come to
me, the dearest of thieves, and stealeth
from me my thoughts: stupid do I then
stand, like this academic chair.

But not much longer do I then stand: I
already lie.--

When Zarathustra heard the wise man thus
speak, he laughed in his heart: for
thereby had a light dawned upon him. And
thus spake he to his heart:

A fool seemeth this wise man with his
forty thoughts: but I believe he knoweth
well how to sleep.

Happy even is he who liveth near this
wise man! Such sleep is contagious--even
through a thick wall it is contagious.

A magic resideth even in his academic
chair. And not in vain did the youths
sit before the preacher of virtue.

His wisdom is to keep awake in order to
sleep well. And verily, if life had no
sense, and had I to choose nonsense,
this would be the desirablest nonsense
for me also.

Now know I well what people sought
formerly above all else when they sought
teachers of virtue. Good sleep they
sought for themselves, and poppy-head
virtues to promote it!

To all those belauded sages of the
academic chairs, wisdom was sleep
without dreams: they knew no higher
significance of life.

Even at present, to be sure, there are
some like this preacher of virtue, and
not always so honourable: but their time
is past. And not much longer do they
stand: there they already lie.

Blessed are those drowsy ones: for they
shall soon nod to sleep.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



III. BACKWORLDSMEN.

Once on a time, Zarathustra also cast
his fancy beyond man, like all
backworldsmen. The work of a suffering
and tortured God, did the world then
seem to me.

The dream--and diction--of a God, did
the world then seem to me; coloured
vapours before the eyes of a divinely
dissatisfied one.

Good and evil, and joy and woe, and I
and thou--coloured vapours did they seem
to me before creative eyes. The creator
wished to look away from
himself,--thereupon he created the
world.

Intoxicating joy is it for the sufferer
to look away from his suffering and
forget himself. Intoxicating joy and
self-forgetting, did the world once seem
to me.

This world, the eternally imperfect, an
eternal contradiction’s image and
imperfect image--an intoxicating joy to
its imperfect creator:--thus did the
world once seem to me.

Thus, once on a time, did I also cast my
fancy beyond man, like all
backworldsmen. Beyond man, forsooth?

Ah, ye brethren, that God whom I created
was human work and human madness, like
all the Gods!

A man was he, and only a poor fragment
of a man and ego. Out of mine own ashes
and glow it came unto me, that phantom.
And verily, it came not unto me from the
beyond!

What happened, my brethren? I surpassed
myself, the suffering one; I carried
mine own ashes to the mountain; a
brighter flame I contrived for myself.
And lo! Thereupon the phantom WITHDREW
from me!

To me the convalescent would it now be
suffering and torment to believe in such
phantoms: suffering would it now be to
me, and humiliation. Thus speak I to
backworldsmen.

Suffering was it, and impotence--that
created all backworlds; and the short
madness of happiness, which only the
greatest sufferer experienceth.

Weariness, which seeketh to get to the
ultimate with one leap, with a
death-leap; a poor ignorant weariness,
unwilling even to will any longer: that
created all Gods and backworlds.

Believe me, my brethren! It was the body
which despaired of the body--it groped
with the fingers of the infatuated
spirit at the ultimate walls.

Believe me, my brethren! It was the body
which despaired of the earth--it heard
the bowels of existence speaking unto
it.

And then it sought to get through the
ultimate walls with its head--and not
with its head only--into “the other
world.”

But that “other world” is well concealed
from man, that dehumanised, inhuman
world, which is a celestial naught; and
the bowels of existence do not speak
unto man, except as man.

Verily, it is difficult to prove all
being, and hard to make it speak. Tell
me, ye brethren, is not the strangest of
all things best proved?

Yea, this ego, with its contradiction
and perplexity, speaketh most uprightly
of its being--this creating, willing,
evaluing ego, which is the measure and
value of things.

And this most upright existence, the
ego--it speaketh of the body, and still
implieth the body, even when it museth
and raveth and fluttereth with broken
wings.

Always more uprightly learneth it to
speak, the ego; and the more it
learneth, the more doth it find titles
and honours for the body and the
earth.

A new pride taught me mine ego, and that
teach I unto men: no longer to thrust
one’s head into the sand of celestial
things, but to carry it freely, a
terrestrial head, which giveth meaning
to the earth!

A new will teach I unto men: to choose
that path which man hath followed
blindly, and to approve of it--and no
longer to slink aside from it, like the
sick and perishing!

The sick and perishing--it was they who
despised the body and the earth, and
invented the heavenly world, and the
redeeming blood-drops; but even those
sweet and sad poisons they borrowed from
the body and the earth!

From their misery they sought escape,
and the stars were too remote for them.
Then they sighed: “O that there were
heavenly paths by which to steal into
another existence and into happiness!”
Then they contrived for themselves their
by-paths and bloody draughts!

Beyond the sphere of their body and this
earth they now fancied themselves
transported, these ungrateful ones. But
to what did they owe the convulsion and
rapture of their transport? To their
body and this earth.

Gentle is Zarathustra to the sickly.
Verily, he is not indignant at their
modes of consolation and ingratitude.
May they become convalescents and
overcomers, and create higher bodies for
themselves!

Neither is Zarathustra indignant at a
convalescent who looketh tenderly on his
delusions, and at midnight stealeth
round the grave of his God; but sickness
and a sick frame remain even in his
tears.

Many sickly ones have there always been
among those who muse, and languish for
God; violently they hate the discerning
ones, and the latest of virtues, which
is uprightness.

Backward they always gaze toward dark
ages: then, indeed, were delusion and
faith something different. Raving of the
reason was likeness to God, and doubt
was sin.

Too well do I know those godlike ones:
they insist on being believed in, and
that doubt is sin. Too well, also, do I
know what they themselves most believe
in.

Verily, not in backworlds and redeeming
blood-drops: but in the body do they
also believe most; and their own body is
for them the thing-in-itself.

But it is a sickly thing to them, and
gladly would they get out of their skin.
Therefore hearken they to the preachers
of death, and themselves preach
backworlds.

Hearken rather, my brethren, to the
voice of the healthy body; it is a more
upright and pure voice.

More uprightly and purely speaketh the
healthy body, perfect and square-built;
and it speaketh of the meaning of the
earth.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



IV. THE DESPISERS OF THE BODY.

To the despisers of the body will I
speak my word. I wish them neither to
learn afresh, nor teach anew, but only
to bid farewell to their own
bodies,--and thus be dumb.

“Body am I, and soul”--so saith the
child. And why should one not speak like
children?

But the awakened one, the knowing one,
saith: “Body am I entirely, and nothing
more; and soul is only the name of
something in the body.”

The body is a big sagacity, a plurality
with one sense, a war and a peace, a
flock and a shepherd.

An instrument of thy body is also thy
little sagacity, my brother, which thou
callest “spirit”--a little instrument
and plaything of thy big sagacity.

“Ego,” sayest thou, and art proud of
that word. But the greater thing--in
which thou art unwilling to believe--is
thy body with its big sagacity; it saith
not “ego,” but doeth it.

What the sense feeleth, what the spirit
discerneth, hath never its end in
itself. But sense and spirit would fain
persuade thee that they are the end of
all things: so vain are they.

Instruments and playthings are sense and
spirit: behind them there is still the
Self. The Self seeketh with the eyes of
the senses, it hearkeneth also with the
ears of the spirit.

Ever hearkeneth the Self, and seeketh;
it compareth, mastereth, conquereth, and
destroyeth. It ruleth, and is also the
ego’s ruler.

Behind thy thoughts and feelings, my
brother, there is a mighty lord, an
unknown sage--it is called Self; it
dwelleth in thy body, it is thy body.

There is more sagacity in thy body than
in thy best wisdom. And who then knoweth
why thy body requireth just thy best
wisdom?

Thy Self laugheth at thine ego, and its
proud prancings. “What are these
prancings and flights of thought unto
me?” it saith to itself. “A by-way to my
purpose. I am the leading-string of the
ego, and the prompter of its notions.”

The Self saith unto the ego: “Feel
pain!” And thereupon it suffereth, and
thinketh how it may put an end
thereto--and for that very purpose it IS
MEANT to think.

The Self saith unto the ego: “Feel
pleasure!” Thereupon it rejoiceth, and
thinketh how it may ofttimes
rejoice--and for that very purpose it IS
MEANT to think.

To the despisers of the body will I
speak a word. That they despise is
caused by their esteem. What is it that
created esteeming and despising and
worth and will?

The creating Self created for itself
esteeming and despising, it created for
itself joy and woe. The creating body
created for itself spirit, as a hand to
its will.

Even in your folly and despising ye each
serve your Self, ye despisers of the
body. I tell you, your very Self wanteth
to die, and turneth away from life.

No longer can your Self do that which it
desireth most:--create beyond itself.
That is what it desireth most; that is
all its fervour.

But it is now too late to do so:--so
your Self wisheth to succumb, ye
despisers of the body.

To succumb--so wisheth your Self; and
therefore have ye become despisers of
the body. For ye can no longer create
beyond yourselves.

And therefore are ye now angry with life
and with the earth. And unconscious envy
is in the sidelong look of your
contempt.

I go not your way, ye despisers of the
body! Ye are no bridges for me to the
Superman!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



V. JOYS AND PASSIONS.

My brother, when thou hast a virtue, and
it is thine own virtue, thou hast it in
common with no one.

To be sure, thou wouldst call it by name
and caress it; thou wouldst pull its
ears and amuse thyself with it.

And lo! Then hast thou its name in
common with the people, and hast become
one of the people and the herd with thy
virtue!

Better for thee to say: “Ineffable is
it, and nameless, that which is pain and
sweetness to my soul, and also the
hunger of my bowels.”

Let thy virtue be too high for the
familiarity of names, and if thou must
speak of it, be not ashamed to stammer
about it.

Thus speak and stammer: “That is MY
good, that do I love, thus doth it
please me entirely, thus only do _I_
desire the good.

Not as the law of a God do I desire it,
not as a human law or a human need do I
desire it; it is not to be a guide-post
for me to superearths and paradises.

An earthly virtue is it which I love:
little prudence is therein, and the
least everyday wisdom.

But that bird built its nest beside me:
therefore, I love and cherish it--now
sitteth it beside me on its golden
eggs.”

Thus shouldst thou stammer, and praise
thy virtue.

Once hadst thou passions and calledst
them evil. But now hast thou only thy
virtues: they grew out of thy
passions.

Thou implantedst thy highest aim into
the heart of those passions: then became
they thy virtues and joys.

And though thou wert of the race of the
hot-tempered, or of the voluptuous, or
of the fanatical, or the vindictive;

All thy passions in the end became
virtues, and all thy devils angels.

Once hadst thou wild dogs in thy cellar:
but they changed at last into birds and
charming songstresses.

Out of thy poisons brewedst thou balsam
for thyself; thy cow, affliction,
milkedst thou--now drinketh thou the
sweet milk of her udder.

And nothing evil groweth in thee any
longer, unless it be the evil that
groweth out of the conflict of thy
virtues.

My brother, if thou be fortunate, then
wilt thou have one virtue and no more:
thus goest thou easier over the
bridge.

Illustrious is it to have many virtues,
but a hard lot; and many a one hath gone
into the wilderness and killed himself,
because he was weary of being the battle
and battlefield of virtues.

My brother, are war and battle evil?
Necessary, however, is the evil;
necessary are the envy and the distrust
and the back-biting among the virtues.

Lo! how each of thy virtues is covetous
of the highest place; it wanteth thy
whole spirit to be ITS herald, it
wanteth thy whole power, in wrath,
hatred, and love.

Jealous is every virtue of the others,
and a dreadful thing is jealousy. Even
virtues may succumb by jealousy.

He whom the flame of jealousy
encompasseth, turneth at last, like the
scorpion, the poisoned sting against
himself.

Ah! my brother, hast thou never seen a
virtue backbite and stab itself?

Man is something that hath to be
surpassed: and therefore shalt thou love
thy virtues,--for thou wilt succumb by
them.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



VI. THE PALE CRIMINAL.

Ye do not mean to slay, ye judges and
sacrificers, until the animal hath bowed
its head? Lo! the pale criminal hath
bowed his head: out of his eye speaketh
the great contempt.

“Mine ego is something which is to be
surpassed: mine ego is to me the great
contempt of man”: so speaketh it out of
that eye.

When he judged himself--that was his
supreme moment; let not the exalted one
relapse again into his low estate!

There is no salvation for him who thus
suffereth from himself, unless it be
speedy death.

Your slaying, ye judges, shall be pity,
and not revenge; and in that ye slay,
see to it that ye yourselves justify
life!

It is not enough that ye should
reconcile with him whom ye slay. Let
your sorrow be love to the Superman:
thus will ye justify your own
survival!

“Enemy” shall ye say but not “villain,”
“invalid” shall ye say but not “wretch,”
“fool” shall ye say but not “sinner.”

And thou, red judge, if thou would say
audibly all thou hast done in thought,
then would every one cry: “Away with the
nastiness and the virulent reptile!”

But one thing is the thought, another
thing is the deed, and another thing is
the idea of the deed. The wheel of
causality doth not roll between them.

An idea made this pale man pale.
Adequate was he for his deed when he did
it, but the idea of it, he could not
endure when it was done.

Evermore did he now see himself as the
doer of one deed. Madness, I call this:
the exception reversed itself to the
rule in him.

The streak of chalk bewitcheth the hen;
the stroke he struck bewitched his weak
reason. Madness AFTER the deed, I call
this.

Hearken, ye judges! There is another
madness besides, and it is BEFORE the
deed. Ah! ye have not gone deep enough
into this soul!

Thus speaketh the red judge: “Why did
this criminal commit murder? He meant to
rob.” I tell you, however, that his soul
wanted blood, not booty: he thirsted for
the happiness of the knife!

But his weak reason understood not this
madness, and it persuaded him. “What
matter about blood!” it said; “wishest
thou not, at least, to make booty
thereby? Or take revenge?”

And he hearkened unto his weak reason:
like lead lay its words upon
him--thereupon he robbed when he
murdered. He did not mean to be ashamed
of his madness.

And now once more lieth the lead of his
guilt upon him, and once more is his
weak reason so benumbed, so paralysed,
and so dull.

Could he only shake his head, then would
his burden roll off; but who shaketh
that head?

What is this man? A mass of diseases
that reach out into the world through
the spirit; there they want to get their
prey.

What is this man? A coil of wild
serpents that are seldom at peace among
themselves--so they go forth apart and
seek prey in the world.

Look at that poor body! What it suffered
and craved, the poor soul interpreted to
itself--it interpreted it as murderous
desire, and eagerness for the happiness
of the knife.

Him who now turneth sick, the evil
overtaketh which is now the evil: he
seeketh to cause pain with that which
causeth him pain. But there have been
other ages, and another evil and good.

Once was doubt evil, and the will to
Self. Then the invalid became a heretic
or sorcerer; as heretic or sorcerer he
suffered, and sought to cause
suffering.

But this will not enter your ears; it
hurteth your good people, ye tell me.
But what doth it matter to me about your
good people!

Many things in your good people cause me
disgust, and verily, not their evil. I
would that they had a madness by which
they succumbed, like this pale
criminal!

Verily, I would that their madness were
called truth, or fidelity, or justice:
but they have their virtue in order to
live long, and in wretched
self-complacency.

I am a railing alongside the torrent;
whoever is able to grasp me may grasp
me! Your crutch, however, I am not.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



VII. READING AND WRITING.

Of all that is written, I love only what
a person hath written with his blood.
Write with blood, and thou wilt find
that blood is spirit.

It is no easy task to understand
unfamiliar blood; I hate the reading
idlers.

He who knoweth the reader, doeth nothing
more for the reader. Another century of
readers--and spirit itself will stink.

Every one being allowed to learn to
read, ruineth in the long run not only
writing but also thinking.

Once spirit was God, then it became man,
and now it even becometh populace.

He that writeth in blood and proverbs
doth not want to be read, but learnt by
heart.

In the mountains the shortest way is
from peak to peak, but for that route
thou must have long legs. Proverbs
should be peaks, and those spoken to
should be big and tall.

The atmosphere rare and pure, danger
near and the spirit full of a joyful
wickedness: thus are things well
matched.

I want to have goblins about me, for I
am courageous. The courage which scareth
away ghosts, createth for itself
goblins--it wanteth to laugh.

I no longer feel in common with you; the
very cloud which I see beneath me, the
blackness and heaviness at which I
laugh--that is your thunder-cloud.

Ye look aloft when ye long for
exaltation; and I look downward because
I am exalted.

Who among you can at the same time laugh
and be exalted?

He who climbeth on the highest
mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays
and tragic realities.

Courageous, unconcerned, scornful,
coercive--so wisdom wisheth us; she is a
woman, and ever loveth only a warrior.

Ye tell me, “Life is hard to bear.” But
for what purpose should ye have your
pride in the morning and your
resignation in the evening?

Life is hard to bear: but do not affect
to be so delicate! We are all of us fine
sumpter asses and assesses.

What have we in common with the
rose-bud, which trembleth because a drop
of dew hath formed upon it?

It is true we love life; not because we
are wont to live, but because we are
wont to love.

There is always some madness in love.
But there is always, also, some method
in madness.

And to me also, who appreciate life, the
butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and
whatever is like them amongst us, seem
most to enjoy happiness.

To see these light, foolish, pretty,
lively little sprites flit about--that
moveth Zarathustra to tears and songs.

I should only believe in a God that
would know how to dance.

And when I saw my devil, I found him
serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he
was the spirit of gravity--through him
all things fall.

Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we
slay. Come, let us slay the spirit of
gravity!

I learned to walk; since then have I let
myself run. I learned to fly; since then
I do not need pushing in order to move
from a spot.

Now am I light, now do I fly; now do I
see myself under myself. Now there
danceth a God in me.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



VIII. THE TREE ON THE HILL.

Zarathustra’s eye had perceived that a
certain youth avoided him. And as he
walked alone one evening over the hills
surrounding the town called “The Pied
Cow,” behold, there found he the youth
sitting leaning against a tree, and
gazing with wearied look into the
valley. Zarathustra thereupon laid hold
of the tree beside which the youth sat,
and spake thus:

“If I wished to shake this tree with my
hands, I should not be able to do so.

But the wind, which we see not,
troubleth and bendeth it as it listeth.
We are sorest bent and troubled by
invisible hands.”

Thereupon the youth arose disconcerted,
and said: “I hear Zarathustra, and just
now was I thinking of him!” Zarathustra
answered:

“Why art thou frightened on that
account?--But it is the same with man as
with the tree.

The more he seeketh to rise into the
height and light, the more vigorously do
his roots struggle earthward, downward,
into the dark and deep--into the
evil.”

“Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth.
“How is it possible that thou hast
discovered my soul?”

Zarathustra smiled, and said: “Many a
soul one will never discover, unless one
first invent it.”

“Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth
once more.

“Thou saidst the truth, Zarathustra. I
trust myself no longer since I sought to
rise into the height, and nobody
trusteth me any longer; how doth that
happen?

I change too quickly: my to-day refuteth
my yesterday. I often overleap the steps
when I clamber; for so doing, none of
the steps pardons me.

When aloft, I find myself always alone.
No one speaketh unto me; the frost of
solitude maketh me tremble. What do I
seek on the height?

My contempt and my longing increase
together; the higher I clamber, the more
do I despise him who clambereth. What
doth he seek on the height?

How ashamed I am of my clambering and
stumbling! How I mock at my violent
panting! How I hate him who flieth! How
tired I am on the height!”

Here the youth was silent. And
Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside
which they stood, and spake thus:

“This tree standeth lonely here on the
hills; it hath grown up high above man
and beast.

And if it wanted to speak, it would have
none who could understand it: so high
hath it grown.

Now it waiteth and waiteth,--for what
doth it wait? It dwelleth too close to
the seat of the clouds; it waiteth
perhaps for the first lightning?”

When Zarathustra had said this, the
youth called out with violent gestures:
“Yea, Zarathustra, thou speakest the
truth. My destruction I longed for, when
I desired to be on the height, and thou
art the lightning for which I waited!
Lo! what have I been since thou hast
appeared amongst us? It is mine envy of
thee that hath destroyed me!”--Thus
spake the youth, and wept bitterly.
Zarathustra, however, put his arm about
him, and led the youth away with him.

And when they had walked a while
together, Zarathustra began to speak
thus:

It rendeth my heart. Better than thy
words express it, thine eyes tell me all
thy danger.

As yet thou art not free; thou still
SEEKEST freedom. Too unslept hath thy
seeking made thee, and too wakeful.

On the open height wouldst thou be; for
the stars thirsteth thy soul. But thy
bad impulses also thirst for freedom.

Thy wild dogs want liberty; they bark
for joy in their cellar when thy spirit
endeavoureth to open all prison doors.

Still art thou a prisoner--it seemeth to
me--who deviseth liberty for himself:
ah! sharp becometh the soul of such
prisoners, but also deceitful and
wicked.

To purify himself, is still necessary
for the freedman of the spirit. Much of
the prison and the mould still remaineth
in him: pure hath his eye still to
become.

Yea, I know thy danger. But by my love
and hope I conjure thee: cast not thy
love and hope away!

Noble thou feelest thyself still, and
noble others also feel thee still,
though they bear thee a grudge and cast
evil looks. Know this, that to everybody
a noble one standeth in the way.

Also to the good, a noble one standeth
in the way: and even when they call him
a good man, they want thereby to put him
aside.

The new, would the noble man create, and
a new virtue. The old, wanteth the good
man, and that the old should be
conserved.

But it is not the danger of the noble
man to turn a good man, but lest he
should become a blusterer, a scoffer, or
a destroyer.

Ah! I have known noble ones who lost
their highest hope. And then they
disparaged all high hopes.

Then lived they shamelessly in temporary
pleasures, and beyond the day had hardly
an aim.

“Spirit is also voluptuousness,”--said
they. Then broke the wings of their
spirit; and now it creepeth about, and
defileth where it gnaweth.

Once they thought of becoming heroes;
but sensualists are they now. A trouble
and a terror is the hero to them.

But by my love and hope I conjure thee:
cast not away the hero in thy soul!
Maintain holy thy highest hope!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



IX. THE PREACHERS OF DEATH.

There are preachers of death: and the
earth is full of those to whom
desistance from life must be preached.

Full is the earth of the superfluous;
marred is life by the many-too-many. May
they be decoyed out of this life by the
“life eternal”!

“The yellow ones”: so are called the
preachers of death, or “the black ones.”
But I will show them unto you in other
colours besides.

There are the terrible ones who carry
about in themselves the beast of prey,
and have no choice except lusts or
self-laceration. And even their lusts
are self-laceration.

They have not yet become men, those
terrible ones: may they preach
desistance from life, and pass away
themselves!

There are the spiritually consumptive
ones: hardly are they born when they
begin to die, and long for doctrines of
lassitude and renunciation.

They would fain be dead, and we should
approve of their wish! Let us beware of
awakening those dead ones, and of
damaging those living coffins!

They meet an invalid, or an old man, or
a corpse--and immediately they say:
“Life is refuted!”

But they only are refuted, and their
eye, which seeth only one aspect of
existence.

Shrouded in thick melancholy, and eager
for the little casualties that bring
death: thus do they wait, and clench
their teeth.

Or else, they grasp at sweetmeats, and
mock at their childishness thereby: they
cling to their straw of life, and mock
at their still clinging to it.

Their wisdom speaketh thus: “A fool, he
who remaineth alive; but so far are we
fools! And that is the foolishest thing
in life!”

“Life is only suffering”: so say others,
and lie not. Then see to it that YE
cease! See to it that the life ceaseth
which is only suffering!

And let this be the teaching of your
virtue: “Thou shalt slay thyself! Thou
shalt steal away from thyself!”--

“Lust is sin,”--so say some who preach
death--“let us go apart and beget no
children!”

“Giving birth is troublesome,”--say
others--“why still give birth? One
beareth only the unfortunate!” And they
also are preachers of death.

“Pity is necessary,”--so saith a third
party. “Take what I have! Take what I
am! So much less doth life bind me!”

Were they consistently pitiful, then
would they make their neighbours sick of
life. To be wicked--that would be their
true goodness.

But they want to be rid of life; what
care they if they bind others still
faster with their chains and gifts!--

And ye also, to whom life is rough
labour and disquiet, are ye not very
tired of life? Are ye not very ripe for
the sermon of death?

All ye to whom rough labour is dear, and
the rapid, new, and strange--ye put up
with yourselves badly; your diligence is
flight, and the will to
self-forgetfulness.

If ye believed more in life, then would
ye devote yourselves less to the
momentary. But for waiting, ye have not
enough of capacity in you--nor even for
idling!

Everywhere resoundeth the voices of
those who preach death; and the earth is
full of those to whom death hath to be
preached.

Or “life eternal”; it is all the same to
me--if only they pass away quickly!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



X. WAR AND WARRIORS.

By our best enemies we do not want to be
spared, nor by those either whom we love
from the very heart. So let me tell you
the truth!

My brethren in war! I love you from the
very heart. I am, and was ever, your
counterpart. And I am also your best
enemy. So let me tell you the truth!

I know the hatred and envy of your
hearts. Ye are not great enough not to
know of hatred and envy. Then be great
enough not to be ashamed of them!

And if ye cannot be saints of knowledge,
then, I pray you, be at least its
warriors. They are the companions and
forerunners of such saintship.

I see many soldiers; could I but see
many warriors! “Uniform” one calleth
what they wear; may it not be uniform
what they therewith hide!

Ye shall be those whose eyes ever seek
for an enemy--for YOUR enemy. And with
some of you there is hatred at first
sight.

Your enemy shall ye seek; your war shall
ye wage, and for the sake of your
thoughts! And if your thoughts succumb,
your uprightness shall still shout
triumph thereby!

Ye shall love peace as a means to new
wars--and the short peace more than the
long.

You I advise not to work, but to fight.
You I advise not to peace, but to
victory. Let your work be a fight, let
your peace be a victory!

One can only be silent and sit
peacefully when one hath arrow and bow;
otherwise one prateth and quarrelleth.
Let your peace be a victory!

Ye say it is the good cause which
halloweth even war? I say unto you: it
is the good war which halloweth every
cause.

War and courage have done more great
things than charity. Not your sympathy,
but your bravery hath hitherto saved the
victims.

“What is good?” ye ask. To be brave is
good. Let the little girls say: “To be
good is what is pretty, and at the same
time touching.”

They call you heartless: but your heart
is true, and I love the bashfulness of
your goodwill. Ye are ashamed of your
flow, and others are ashamed of their
ebb.

Ye are ugly? Well then, my brethren,
take the sublime about you, the mantle
of the ugly!

And when your soul becometh great, then
doth it become haughty, and in your
sublimity there is wickedness. I know
you.

In wickedness the haughty man and the
weakling meet. But they misunderstand
one another. I know you.

Ye shall only have enemies to be hated,
but not enemies to be despised. Ye must
be proud of your enemies; then, the
successes of your enemies are also your
successes.

Resistance--that is the distinction of
the slave. Let your distinction be
obedience. Let your commanding itself be
obeying!

To the good warrior soundeth “thou
shalt” pleasanter than “I will.” And all
that is dear unto you, ye shall first
have it commanded unto you.

Let your love to life be love to your
highest hope; and let your highest hope
be the highest thought of life!

Your highest thought, however, ye shall
have it commanded unto you by me--and it
is this: man is something that is to be
surpassed.

So live your life of obedience and of
war! What matter about long life! What
warrior wisheth to be spared!

I spare you not, I love you from my very
heart, my brethren in war!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XI. THE NEW IDOL.

Somewhere there are still peoples and
herds, but not with us, my brethren:
here there are states.

A state? What is that? Well! open now
your ears unto me, for now will I say
unto you my word concerning the death of
peoples.

A state, is called the coldest of all
cold monsters. Coldly lieth it also; and
this lie creepeth from its mouth: “I,
the state, am the people.”

It is a lie! Creators were they who
created peoples, and hung a faith and a
love over them: thus they served life.

Destroyers, are they who lay snares for
many, and call it the state: they hang a
sword and a hundred cravings over
them.

Where there is still a people, there the
state is not understood, but hated as
the evil eye, and as sin against laws
and customs.

This sign I give unto you: every people
speaketh its language of good and evil:
this its neighbour understandeth not.
Its language hath it devised for itself
in laws and customs.

But the state lieth in all languages of
good and evil; and whatever it saith it
lieth; and whatever it hath it hath
stolen.

False is everything in it; with stolen
teeth it biteth, the biting one. False
are even its bowels.

Confusion of language of good and evil;
this sign I give unto you as the sign of
the state. Verily, the will to death,
indicateth this sign! Verily, it
beckoneth unto the preachers of death!

Many too many are born: for the
superfluous ones was the state
devised!

See just how it enticeth them to it, the
many-too-many! How it swalloweth and
cheweth and recheweth them!

“On earth there is nothing greater than
I: it is I who am the regulating finger
of God”--thus roareth the monster. And
not only the long-eared and
short-sighted fall upon their knees!

Ah! even in your ears, ye great souls,
it whispereth its gloomy lies! Ah! it
findeth out the rich hearts which
willingly lavish themselves!

Yea, it findeth you out too, ye
conquerors of the old God! Weary ye
became of the conflict, and now your
weariness serveth the new idol!

Heroes and honourable ones, it would
fain set up around it, the new idol!
Gladly it basketh in the sunshine of
good consciences,--the cold monster!

Everything will it give YOU, if YE
worship it, the new idol: thus it
purchaseth the lustre of your virtue,
and the glance of your proud eyes.

It seeketh to allure by means of you,
the many-too-many! Yea, a hellish
artifice hath here been devised, a
death-horse jingling with the trappings
of divine honours!

Yea, a dying for many hath here been
devised, which glorifieth itself as
life: verily, a hearty service unto all
preachers of death!

The state, I call it, where all are
poison-drinkers, the good and the bad:
the state, where all lose themselves,
the good and the bad: the state, where
the slow suicide of all--is called
“life.”

Just see these superfluous ones! They
steal the works of the inventors and the
treasures of the wise. Culture, they
call their theft--and everything
becometh sickness and trouble unto
them!

Just see these superfluous ones! Sick
are they always; they vomit their bile
and call it a newspaper. They devour one
another, and cannot even digest
themselves.

Just see these superfluous ones! Wealth
they acquire and become poorer thereby.
Power they seek for, and above all, the
lever of power, much money--these
impotent ones!

See them clamber, these nimble apes!
They clamber over one another, and thus
scuffle into the mud and the abyss.

Towards the throne they all strive: it
is their madness--as if happiness sat on
the throne! Ofttimes sitteth filth on
the throne.--and ofttimes also the
throne on filth.

Madmen they all seem to me, and
clambering apes, and too eager. Badly
smelleth their idol to me, the cold
monster: badly they all smell to me,
these idolaters.

My brethren, will ye suffocate in the
fumes of their maws and appetites!
Better break the windows and jump into
the open air!

Do go out of the way of the bad odour!
Withdraw from the idolatry of the
superfluous!

Do go out of the way of the bad odour!
Withdraw from the steam of these human
sacrifices!

Open still remaineth the earth for great
souls. Empty are still many sites for
lone ones and twain ones, around which
floateth the odour of tranquil seas.

Open still remaineth a free life for
great souls. Verily, he who possesseth
little is so much the less possessed:
blessed be moderate poverty!

There, where the state ceaseth--there
only commenceth the man who is not
superfluous: there commenceth the song
of the necessary ones, the single and
irreplaceable melody.

There, where the state CEASETH--pray
look thither, my brethren! Do ye not see
it, the rainbow and the bridges of the
Superman?--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XII. THE FLIES IN THE MARKET-PLACE.

Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I
see thee deafened with the noise of the
great men, and stung all over with the
stings of the little ones.

Admirably do forest and rock know how to
be silent with thee. Resemble again the
tree which thou lovest, the
broad-branched one--silently and
attentively it o’erhangeth the sea.

Where solitude endeth, there beginneth
the market-place; and where the
market-place beginneth, there beginneth
also the noise of the great actors, and
the buzzing of the poison-flies.

In the world even the best things are
worthless without those who represent
them: those representers, the people
call great men.

Little do the people understand what is
great--that is to say, the creating
agency. But they have a taste for all
representers and actors of great
things.

Around the devisers of new values
revolveth the world:--invisibly it
revolveth. But around the actors revolve
the people and the glory: such is the
course of things.

Spirit, hath the actor, but little
conscience of the spirit. He believeth
always in that wherewith he maketh
believe most strongly--in HIMSELF!

Tomorrow he hath a new belief, and the
day after, one still newer. Sharp
perceptions hath he, like the people,
and changeable humours.

To upset--that meaneth with him to
prove. To drive mad--that meaneth with
him to convince. And blood is counted by
him as the best of all arguments.

A truth which only glideth into fine
ears, he calleth falsehood and trumpery.
Verily, he believeth only in Gods that
make a great noise in the world!

Full of clattering buffoons is the
market-place,--and the people glory in
their great men! These are for them the
masters of the hour.

But the hour presseth them; so they
press thee. And also from thee they want
Yea or Nay. Alas! thou wouldst set thy
chair betwixt For and Against?

On account of those absolute and
impatient ones, be not jealous, thou
lover of truth! Never yet did truth
cling to the arm of an absolute one.

On account of those abrupt ones, return
into thy security: only in the
market-place is one assailed by Yea? or
Nay?

Slow is the experience of all deep
fountains: long have they to wait until
they know WHAT hath fallen into their
depths.

Away from the market-place and from fame
taketh place all that is great: away
from the market-Place and from fame have
ever dwelt the devisers of new values.

Flee, my friend, into thy solitude: I
see thee stung all over by the poisonous
flies. Flee thither, where a rough,
strong breeze bloweth!

Flee into thy solitude! Thou hast lived
too closely to the small and the
pitiable. Flee from their invisible
vengeance! Towards thee they have
nothing but vengeance.

Raise no longer an arm against them!
Innumerable are they, and it is not thy
lot to be a fly-flap.

Innumerable are the small and pitiable
ones; and of many a proud structure,
rain-drops and weeds have been the
ruin.

Thou art not stone; but already hast
thou become hollow by the numerous
drops. Thou wilt yet break and burst by
the numerous drops.

Exhausted I see thee, by poisonous
flies; bleeding I see thee, and torn at
a hundred spots; and thy pride will not
even upbraid.

Blood they would have from thee in all
innocence; blood their bloodless souls
crave for--and they sting, therefore, in
all innocence.

But thou, profound one, thou sufferest
too profoundly even from small wounds;
and ere thou hadst recovered, the same
poison-worm crawled over thy hand.

Too proud art thou to kill these
sweet-tooths. But take care lest it be
thy fate to suffer all their poisonous
injustice!

They buzz around thee also with their
praise: obtrusiveness, is their praise.
They want to be close to thy skin and
thy blood.

They flatter thee, as one flattereth a
God or devil; they whimper before thee,
as before a God or devil. What doth it
come to! Flatterers are they, and
whimperers, and nothing more.

Often, also, do they show themselves to
thee as amiable ones. But that hath ever
been the prudence of the cowardly. Yea!
the cowardly are wise!

They think much about thee with their
circumscribed souls--thou art always
suspected by them! Whatever is much
thought about is at last thought
suspicious.

They punish thee for all thy virtues.
They pardon thee in their inmost hearts
only--for thine errors.

Because thou art gentle and of upright
character, thou sayest: “Blameless are
they for their small existence.” But
their circumscribed souls think:
“Blamable is all great existence.”

Even when thou art gentle towards them,
they still feel themselves despised by
thee; and they repay thy beneficence
with secret maleficence.

Thy silent pride is always counter to
their taste; they rejoice if once thou
be humble enough to be frivolous.

What we recognise in a man, we also
irritate in him. Therefore be on your
guard against the small ones!

In thy presence they feel themselves
small, and their baseness gleameth and
gloweth against thee in invisible
vengeance.

Sawest thou not how often they became
dumb when thou approachedst them, and
how their energy left them like the
smoke of an extinguishing fire?

Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art
thou of thy neighbours; for they are
unworthy of thee. Therefore they hate
thee, and would fain suck thy blood.

Thy neighbours will always be poisonous
flies; what is great in thee--that
itself must make them more poisonous,
and always more fly-like.

Flee, my friend, into thy solitude--and
thither, where a rough strong breeze
bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a
fly-flap.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XIII. CHASTITY.

I love the forest. It is bad to live in
cities: there, there are too many of the
lustful.

Is it not better to fall into the hands
of a murderer, than into the dreams of a
lustful woman?

And just look at these men: their eye
saith it--they know nothing better on
earth than to lie with a woman.

Filth is at the bottom of their souls;
and alas! if their filth hath still
spirit in it!

Would that ye were perfect--at least as
animals! But to animals belongeth
innocence.

Do I counsel you to slay your instincts?
I counsel you to innocence in your
instincts.

Do I counsel you to chastity? Chastity
is a virtue with some, but with many
almost a vice.

These are continent, to be sure: but
doggish lust looketh enviously out of
all that they do.

Even into the heights of their virtue
and into their cold spirit doth this
creature follow them, with its
discord.

And how nicely can doggish lust beg for
a piece of spirit, when a piece of flesh
is denied it!

Ye love tragedies and all that breaketh
the heart? But I am distrustful of your
doggish lust.

Ye have too cruel eyes, and ye look
wantonly towards the sufferers. Hath not
your lust just disguised itself and
taken the name of fellow-suffering?

And also this parable give I unto you:
Not a few who meant to cast out their
devil, went thereby into the swine
themselves.

To whom chastity is difficult, it is to
be dissuaded: lest it become the road to
hell--to filth and lust of soul.

Do I speak of filthy things? That is not
the worst thing for me to do.

Not when the truth is filthy, but when
it is shallow, doth the discerning one
go unwillingly into its waters.

Verily, there are chaste ones from their
very nature; they are gentler of heart,
and laugh better and oftener than you.

They laugh also at chastity, and ask:
“What is chastity?

Is chastity not folly? But the folly
came unto us, and not we unto it.

We offered that guest harbour and heart:
now it dwelleth with us--let it stay as
long as it will!”--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XIV. THE FRIEND.

“One, is always too many about
me”--thinketh the anchorite. “Always
once one--that maketh two in the long
run!”

I and me are always too earnestly in
conversation: how could it be endured,
if there were not a friend?

The friend of the anchorite is always
the third one: the third one is the cork
which preventeth the conversation of the
two sinking into the depth.

Ah! there are too many depths for all
anchorites. Therefore, do they long so
much for a friend, and for his
elevation.

Our faith in others betrayeth wherein we
would fain have faith in ourselves. Our
longing for a friend is our betrayer.

And often with our love we want merely
to overleap envy. And often we attack
and make ourselves enemies, to conceal
that we are vulnerable.

“Be at least mine enemy!”--thus speaketh
the true reverence, which doth not
venture to solicit friendship.

If one would have a friend, then must
one also be willing to wage war for him:
and in order to wage war, one must be
CAPABLE of being an enemy.

One ought still to honour the enemy in
one’s friend. Canst thou go nigh unto
thy friend, and not go over to him?

In one’s friend one shall have one’s
best enemy. Thou shalt be closest unto
him with thy heart when thou
withstandest him.

Thou wouldst wear no raiment before thy
friend? It is in honour of thy friend
that thou showest thyself to him as thou
art? But he wisheth thee to the devil on
that account!

He who maketh no secret of himself
shocketh: so much reason have ye to fear
nakedness! Aye, if ye were Gods, ye
could then be ashamed of clothing!

Thou canst not adorn thyself fine enough
for thy friend; for thou shalt be unto
him an arrow and a longing for the
Superman.

Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep--to
know how he looketh? What is usually the
countenance of thy friend? It is thine
own countenance, in a coarse and
imperfect mirror.

Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep? Wert
thou not dismayed at thy friend looking
so? O my friend, man is something that
hath to be surpassed.

In divining and keeping silence shall
the friend be a master: not everything
must thou wish to see. Thy dream shall
disclose unto thee what thy friend doeth
when awake.

Let thy pity be a divining: to know
first if thy friend wanteth pity.
Perhaps he loveth in thee the unmoved
eye, and the look of eternity.

Let thy pity for thy friend be hid under
a hard shell; thou shalt bite out a
tooth upon it. Thus will it have
delicacy and sweetness.

Art thou pure air and solitude and bread
and medicine to thy friend? Many a one
cannot loosen his own fetters, but is
nevertheless his friend’s emancipator.

Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be
a friend. Art thou a tyrant? Then thou
canst not have friends.

Far too long hath there been a slave and
a tyrant concealed in woman. On that
account woman is not yet capable of
friendship: she knoweth only love.

In woman’s love there is injustice and
blindness to all she doth not love. And
even in woman’s conscious love, there is
still always surprise and lightning and
night, along with the light.

As yet woman is not capable of
friendship: women are still cats, and
birds. Or at the best, cows.

As yet woman is not capable of
friendship. But tell me, ye men, who of
you are capable of friendship?

Oh! your poverty, ye men, and your
sordidness of soul! As much as ye give
to your friend, will I give even to my
foe, and will not have become poorer
thereby.

There is comradeship: may there be
friendship!

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XV. THE THOUSAND AND ONE GOALS.

Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many
peoples: thus he discovered the good and
bad of many peoples. No greater power
did Zarathustra find on earth than good
and bad.

No people could live without first
valuing; if a people will maintain
itself, however, it must not value as
its neighbour valueth.

Much that passed for good with one
people was regarded with scorn and
contempt by another: thus I found it.
Much found I here called bad, which was
there decked with purple honours.

Never did the one neighbour understand
the other: ever did his soul marvel at
his neighbour’s delusion and
wickedness.

A table of excellencies hangeth over
every people. Lo! it is the table of
their triumphs; lo! it is the voice of
their Will to Power.

It is laudable, what they think hard;
what is indispensable and hard they call
good; and what relieveth in the direst
distress, the unique and hardest of
all,--they extol as holy.

Whatever maketh them rule and conquer
and shine, to the dismay and envy of
their neighbours, they regard as the
high and foremost thing, the test and
the meaning of all else.

Verily, my brother, if thou knewest but
a people’s need, its land, its sky, and
its neighbour, then wouldst thou divine
the law of its surmountings, and why it
climbeth up that ladder to its hope.

“Always shalt thou be the foremost and
prominent above others: no one shall thy
jealous soul love, except a
friend”--that made the soul of a Greek
thrill: thereby went he his way to
greatness.

“To speak truth, and be skilful with bow
and arrow”--so seemed it alike pleasing
and hard to the people from whom cometh
my name--the name which is alike
pleasing and hard to me.

“To honour father and mother, and from
the root of the soul to do their
will”--this table of surmounting hung
another people over them, and became
powerful and permanent thereby.

“To have fidelity, and for the sake of
fidelity to risk honour and blood, even
in evil and dangerous courses”--teaching
itself so, another people mastered
itself, and thus mastering itself,
became pregnant and heavy with great
hopes.

Verily, men have given unto themselves
all their good and bad. Verily, they
took it not, they found it not, it came
not unto them as a voice from heaven.

Values did man only assign to things in
order to maintain himself--he created
only the significance of things, a human
significance! Therefore, calleth he
himself “man,” that is, the valuator.

Valuing is creating: hear it, ye
creating ones! Valuation itself is the
treasure and jewel of the valued
things.

Through valuation only is there value;
and without valuation the nut of
existence would be hollow. Hear it, ye
creating ones!

Change of values--that is, change of the
creating ones. Always doth he destroy
who hath to be a creator.

Creating ones were first of all peoples,
and only in late times individuals;
verily, the individual himself is still
the latest creation.

Peoples once hung over them tables of
the good. Love which would rule and love
which would obey, created for themselves
such tables.

Older is the pleasure in the herd than
the pleasure in the ego: and as long as
the good conscience is for the herd, the
bad conscience only saith: ego.

Verily, the crafty ego, the loveless
one, that seeketh its advantage in the
advantage of many--it is not the origin
of the herd, but its ruin.

Loving ones, was it always, and creating
ones, that created good and bad. Fire of
love gloweth in the names of all the
virtues, and fire of wrath.

Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many
peoples: no greater power did
Zarathustra find on earth than the
creations of the loving ones--“good” and
“bad” are they called.

Verily, a prodigy is this power of
praising and blaming. Tell me, ye
brethren, who will master it for me? Who
will put a fetter upon the thousand
necks of this animal?

A thousand goals have there been
hitherto, for a thousand peoples have
there been. Only the fetter for the
thousand necks is still lacking; there
is lacking the one goal. As yet humanity
hath not a goal.

But pray tell me, my brethren, if the
goal of humanity be still lacking, is
there not also still lacking--humanity
itself?--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XVI. NEIGHBOUR-LOVE.

Ye crowd around your neighbour, and have
fine words for it. But I say unto you:
your neighbour-love is your bad love of
yourselves.

Ye flee unto your neighbour from
yourselves, and would fain make a virtue
thereof: but I fathom your
“unselfishness.”

The THOU is older than the _I_; the THOU
hath been consecrated, but not yet the
_I_: so man presseth nigh unto his
neighbour.

Do I advise you to neighbour-love?
Rather do I advise you to
neighbour-flight and to furthest love!

Higher than love to your neighbour is
love to the furthest and future ones;
higher still than love to men, is love
to things and phantoms.

The phantom that runneth on before thee,
my brother, is fairer than thou; why
dost thou not give unto it thy flesh and
thy bones? But thou fearest, and runnest
unto thy neighbour.

Ye cannot endure it with yourselves, and
do not love yourselves sufficiently: so
ye seek to mislead your neighbour into
love, and would fain gild yourselves
with his error.

Would that ye could not endure it with
any kind of near ones, or their
neighbours; then would ye have to create
your friend and his overflowing heart
out of yourselves.

Ye call in a witness when ye want to
speak well of yourselves; and when ye
have misled him to think well of you, ye
also think well of yourselves.

Not only doth he lie, who speaketh
contrary to his knowledge, but more so,
he who speaketh contrary to his
ignorance. And thus speak ye of
yourselves in your intercourse, and
belie your neighbour with yourselves.

Thus saith the fool: “Association with
men spoileth the character, especially
when one hath none.”

The one goeth to his neighbour because
he seeketh himself, and the other
because he would fain lose himself. Your
bad love to yourselves maketh solitude a
prison to you.

The furthest ones are they who pay for
your love to the near ones; and when
there are but five of you together, a
sixth must always die.

I love not your festivals either: too
many actors found I there, and even the
spectators often behaved like actors.

Not the neighbour do I teach you, but
the friend. Let the friend be the
festival of the earth to you, and a
foretaste of the Superman.

I teach you the friend and his
overflowing heart. But one must know how
to be a sponge, if one would be loved by
overflowing hearts.

I teach you the friend in whom the world
standeth complete, a capsule of the
good,--the creating friend, who hath
always a complete world to bestow.

And as the world unrolled itself for
him, so rolleth it together again for
him in rings, as the growth of good
through evil, as the growth of purpose
out of chance.

Let the future and the furthest be the
motive of thy to-day; in thy friend
shalt thou love the Superman as thy
motive.

My brethren, I advise you not to
neighbour-love--I advise you to furthest
love!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XVII. THE WAY OF THE CREATING ONE.

Wouldst thou go into isolation, my
brother? Wouldst thou seek the way unto
thyself? Tarry yet a little and hearken
unto me.

“He who seeketh may easily get lost
himself. All isolation is wrong”: so say
the herd. And long didst thou belong to
the herd.

The voice of the herd will still echo in
thee. And when thou sayest, “I have no
longer a conscience in common with you,”
then will it be a plaint and a pain.

Lo, that pain itself did the same
conscience produce; and the last gleam
of that conscience still gloweth on
thine affliction.

But thou wouldst go the way of thine
affliction, which is the way unto
thyself? Then show me thine authority
and thy strength to do so!

Art thou a new strength and a new
authority? A first motion? A
self-rolling wheel? Canst thou also
compel stars to revolve around thee?

Alas! there is so much lusting for
loftiness! There are so many convulsions
of the ambitions! Show me that thou art
not a lusting and ambitious one!

Alas! there are so many great thoughts
that do nothing more than the bellows:
they inflate, and make emptier than
ever.

Free, dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling
thought would I hear of, and not that
thou hast escaped from a yoke.

Art thou one ENTITLED to escape from a
yoke? Many a one hath cast away his
final worth when he hath cast away his
servitude.

Free from what? What doth that matter to
Zarathustra! Clearly, however, shall
thine eye show unto me: free FOR WHAT?

Canst thou give unto thyself thy bad and
thy good, and set up thy will as a law
over thee? Canst thou be judge for
thyself, and avenger of thy law?

Terrible is aloneness with the judge and
avenger of one’s own law. Thus is a star
projected into desert space, and into
the icy breath of aloneness.

To-day sufferest thou still from the
multitude, thou individual; to-day hast
thou still thy courage unabated, and thy
hopes.

But one day will the solitude weary
thee; one day will thy pride yield, and
thy courage quail. Thou wilt one day
cry: “I am alone!”

One day wilt thou see no longer thy
loftiness, and see too closely thy
lowliness; thy sublimity itself will
frighten thee as a phantom. Thou wilt
one day cry: “All is false!”

There are feelings which seek to slay
the lonesome one; if they do not
succeed, then must they themselves die!
But art thou capable of it--to be a
murderer?

Hast thou ever known, my brother, the
word “disdain”? And the anguish of thy
justice in being just to those that
disdain thee?

Thou forcest many to think differently
about thee; that, charge they heavily to
thine account. Thou camest nigh unto
them, and yet wentest past: for that
they never forgive thee.

Thou goest beyond them: but the higher
thou risest, the smaller doth the eye of
envy see thee. Most of all, however, is
the flying one hated.

“How could ye be just unto me!”--must
thou say--“I choose your injustice as my
allotted portion.”

Injustice and filth cast they at the
lonesome one: but, my brother, if thou
wouldst be a star, thou must shine for
them none the less on that account!

And be on thy guard against the good and
just! They would fain crucify those who
devise their own virtue--they hate the
lonesome ones.

Be on thy guard, also, against holy
simplicity! All is unholy to it that is
not simple; fain, likewise, would it
play with the fire--of the fagot and
stake.

And be on thy guard, also, against the
assaults of thy love! Too readily doth
the recluse reach his hand to any one
who meeteth him.

To many a one mayest thou not give thy
hand, but only thy paw; and I wish thy
paw also to have claws.

But the worst enemy thou canst meet,
wilt thou thyself always be; thou
waylayest thyself in caverns and
forests.

Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to
thyself! And past thyself and thy seven
devils leadeth thy way!

A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a
wizard and a sooth-sayer, and a fool,
and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a
villain.

Ready must thou be to burn thyself in
thine own flame; how couldst thou become
new if thou have not first become
ashes!

Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of
the creating one: a God wilt thou create
for thyself out of thy seven devils!

Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of
the loving one: thou lovest thyself, and
on that account despisest thou thyself,
as only the loving ones despise.

To create, desireth the loving one,
because he despiseth! What knoweth he of
love who hath not been obliged to
despise just what he loved!

With thy love, go into thine isolation,
my brother, and with thy creating; and
late only will justice limp after
thee.

With my tears, go into thine isolation,
my brother. I love him who seeketh to
create beyond himself, and thus
succumbeth.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XVIII. OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN.

“Why stealest thou along so furtively in
the twilight, Zarathustra? And what
hidest thou so carefully under thy
mantle?

Is it a treasure that hath been given
thee? Or a child that hath been born
thee? Or goest thou thyself on a thief’s
errand, thou friend of the evil?”--

Verily, my brother, said Zarathustra, it
is a treasure that hath been given me:
it is a little truth which I carry.

But it is naughty, like a young child;
and if I hold not its mouth, it
screameth too loudly.

As I went on my way alone to-day, at the
hour when the sun declineth, there met
me an old woman, and she spake thus unto
my soul:

“Much hath Zarathustra spoken also to us
women, but never spake he unto us
concerning woman.”

And I answered her: “Concerning woman,
one should only talk unto men.”

“Talk also unto me of woman,” said she;
“I am old enough to forget it
presently.”

And I obliged the old woman and spake
thus unto her:

Everything in woman is a riddle, and
everything in woman hath one
solution--it is called pregnancy.

Man is for woman a means: the purpose is
always the child. But what is woman for
man?

Two different things wanteth the true
man: danger and diversion. Therefore
wanteth he woman, as the most dangerous
plaything.

Man shall be trained for war, and woman
for the recreation of the warrior: all
else is folly.

Too sweet fruits--these the warrior
liketh not. Therefore liketh he
woman;--bitter is even the sweetest
woman.

Better than man doth woman understand
children, but man is more childish than
woman.

In the true man there is a child hidden:
it wanteth to play. Up then, ye women,
and discover the child in man!

A plaything let woman be, pure and fine
like the precious stone, illumined with
the virtues of a world not yet come.

Let the beam of a star shine in your
love! Let your hope say: “May I bear the
Superman!”

In your love let there be valour! With
your love shall ye assail him who
inspireth you with fear!

In your love be your honour! Little doth
woman understand otherwise about honour.
But let this be your honour: always to
love more than ye are loved, and never
be the second.

Let man fear woman when she loveth: then
maketh she every sacrifice, and
everything else she regardeth as
worthless.

Let man fear woman when she hateth: for
man in his innermost soul is merely
evil; woman, however, is mean.

Whom hateth woman most?--Thus spake the
iron to the loadstone: “I hate thee
most, because thou attractest, but art
too weak to draw unto thee.”

The happiness of man is, “I will.” The
happiness of woman is, “He will.”

“Lo! now hath the world become
perfect!”--thus thinketh every woman
when she obeyeth with all her love.

Obey, must the woman, and find a depth
for her surface. Surface, is woman’s
soul, a mobile, stormy film on shallow
water.

Man’s soul, however, is deep, its
current gusheth in subterranean caverns:
woman surmiseth its force, but
comprehendeth it not.--

Then answered me the old woman: “Many
fine things hath Zarathustra said,
especially for those who are young
enough for them.

Strange! Zarathustra knoweth little
about woman, and yet he is right about
them! Doth this happen, because with
women nothing is impossible?

And now accept a little truth by way of
thanks! I am old enough for it!

Swaddle it up and hold its mouth:
otherwise it will scream too loudly, the
little truth.”

“Give me, woman, thy little truth!” said
I. And thus spake the old woman:

“Thou goest to women? Do not forget thy
whip!”--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XIX. THE BITE OF THE ADDER.

One day had Zarathustra fallen asleep
under a fig-tree, owing to the heat,
with his arms over his face. And there
came an adder and bit him in the neck,
so that Zarathustra screamed with pain.
When he had taken his arm from his face
he looked at the serpent; and then did
it recognise the eyes of Zarathustra,
wriggled awkwardly, and tried to get
away. “Not at all,” said Zarathustra,
“as yet hast thou not received my
thanks! Thou hast awakened me in time;
my journey is yet long.” “Thy journey is
short,” said the adder sadly; “my poison
is fatal.” Zarathustra smiled. “When did
ever a dragon die of a serpent’s
poison?”--said he. “But take thy poison
back! Thou art not rich enough to
present it to me.” Then fell the adder
again on his neck, and licked his
wound.

When Zarathustra once told this to his
disciples they asked him: “And what, O
Zarathustra, is the moral of thy story?”
And Zarathustra answered them thus:

The destroyer of morality, the good and
just call me: my story is immoral.

When, however, ye have an enemy, then
return him not good for evil: for that
would abash him. But prove that he hath
done something good to you.

And rather be angry than abash any one!
And when ye are cursed, it pleaseth me
not that ye should then desire to bless.
Rather curse a little also!

And should a great injustice befall you,
then do quickly five small ones besides.
Hideous to behold is he on whom
injustice presseth alone.

Did ye ever know this? Shared injustice
is half justice. And he who can bear it,
shall take the injustice upon himself!

A small revenge is humaner than no
revenge at all. And if the punishment be
not also a right and an honour to the
transgressor, I do not like your
punishing.

Nobler is it to own oneself in the wrong
than to establish one’s right,
especially if one be in the right. Only,
one must be rich enough to do so.

I do not like your cold justice; out of
the eye of your judges there always
glanceth the executioner and his cold
steel.

Tell me: where find we justice, which is
love with seeing eyes?

Devise me, then, the love which not only
beareth all punishment, but also all
guilt!

Devise me, then, the justice which
acquitteth every one except the judge!

And would ye hear this likewise? To him
who seeketh to be just from the heart,
even the lie becometh philanthropy.

But how could I be just from the heart!
How can I give every one his own! Let
this be enough for me: I give unto every
one mine own.

Finally, my brethren, guard against
doing wrong to any anchorite. How could
an anchorite forget! How could he
requite!

Like a deep well is an anchorite. Easy
is it to throw in a stone: if it should
sink to the bottom, however, tell me,
who will bring it out again?

Guard against injuring the anchorite! If
ye have done so, however, well then,
kill him also!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XX. CHILD AND MARRIAGE.

I have a question for thee alone, my
brother: like a sounding-lead, cast I
this question into thy soul, that I may
know its depth.

Thou art young, and desirest child and
marriage. But I ask thee: Art thou a man
ENTITLED to desire a child?

Art thou the victorious one, the
self-conqueror, the ruler of thy
passions, the master of thy virtues?
Thus do I ask thee.

Or doth the animal speak in thy wish,
and necessity? Or isolation? Or discord
in thee?

I would have thy victory and freedom
long for a child. Living monuments shalt
thou build to thy victory and
emancipation.

Beyond thyself shalt thou build. But
first of all must thou be built thyself,
rectangular in body and soul.

Not only onward shalt thou propagate
thyself, but upward! For that purpose
may the garden of marriage help thee!

A higher body shalt thou create, a first
movement, a spontaneously rolling
wheel--a creating one shalt thou
create.

Marriage: so call I the will of the
twain to create the one that is more
than those who created it. The reverence
for one another, as those exercising
such a will, call I marriage.

Let this be the significance and the
truth of thy marriage. But that which
the many-too-many call marriage, those
superfluous ones--ah, what shall I call
it?

Ah, the poverty of soul in the twain!
Ah, the filth of soul in the twain! Ah,
the pitiable self-complacency in the
twain!

Marriage they call it all; and they say
their marriages are made in heaven.

Well, I do not like it, that heaven of
the superfluous! No, I do not like them,
those animals tangled in the heavenly
toils!

Far from me also be the God who limpeth
thither to bless what he hath not
matched!

Laugh not at such marriages! What child
hath not had reason to weep over its
parents?

Worthy did this man seem, and ripe for
the meaning of the earth: but when I saw
his wife, the earth seemed to me a home
for madcaps.

Yea, I would that the earth shook with
convulsions when a saint and a goose
mate with one another.

This one went forth in quest of truth as
a hero, and at last got for himself a
small decked-up lie: his marriage he
calleth it.

That one was reserved in intercourse and
chose choicely. But one time he spoilt
his company for all time: his marriage
he calleth it.

Another sought a handmaid with the
virtues of an angel. But all at once he
became the handmaid of a woman, and now
would he need also to become an angel.

Careful, have I found all buyers, and
all of them have astute eyes. But even
the astutest of them buyeth his wife in
a sack.

Many short follies--that is called love
by you. And your marriage putteth an end
to many short follies, with one long
stupidity.

Your love to woman, and woman’s love to
man--ah, would that it were sympathy for
suffering and veiled deities! But
generally two animals alight on one
another.

But even your best love is only an
enraptured simile and a painful ardour.
It is a torch to light you to loftier
paths.

Beyond yourselves shall ye love some
day! Then LEARN first of all to love.
And on that account ye had to drink the
bitter cup of your love.

Bitterness is in the cup even of the
best love: thus doth it cause longing
for the Superman; thus doth it cause
thirst in thee, the creating one!

Thirst in the creating one, arrow and
longing for the Superman: tell me, my
brother, is this thy will to marriage?

Holy call I such a will, and such a
marriage.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XXI. VOLUNTARY DEATH.

Many die too late, and some die too
early. Yet strange soundeth the precept:
“Die at the right time!

Die at the right time: so teacheth
Zarathustra.

To be sure, he who never liveth at the
right time, how could he ever die at the
right time? Would that he might never be
born!--Thus do I advise the superfluous
ones.

But even the superfluous ones make much
ado about their death, and even the
hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked.

Every one regardeth dying as a great
matter: but as yet death is not a
festival. Not yet have people learned to
inaugurate the finest festivals.

The consummating death I show unto you,
which becometh a stimulus and promise to
the living.

His death, dieth the consummating one
triumphantly, surrounded by hoping and
promising ones.

Thus should one learn to die; and there
should be no festival at which such a
dying one doth not consecrate the oaths
of the living!

Thus to die is best; the next best,
however, is to die in battle, and
sacrifice a great soul.

But to the fighter equally hateful as to
the victor, is your grinning death which
stealeth nigh like a thief,--and yet
cometh as master.

My death, praise I unto you, the
voluntary death, which cometh unto me
because _I_ want it.

And when shall I want it?--He that hath
a goal and an heir, wanteth death at the
right time for the goal and the heir.

And out of reverence for the goal and
the heir, he will hang up no more
withered wreaths in the sanctuary of
life.

Verily, not the rope-makers will I
resemble: they lengthen out their cord,
and thereby go ever backward.

Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his
truths and triumphs; a toothless mouth
hath no longer the right to every
truth.

And whoever wanteth to have fame, must
take leave of honour betimes, and
practise the difficult art of--going at
the right time.

One must discontinue being feasted upon
when one tasteth best: that is known by
those who want to be long loved.

Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose
lot is to wait until the last day of
autumn: and at the same time they become
ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.

In some ageth the heart first, and in
others the spirit. And some are hoary in
youth, but the late young keep long
young.

To many men life is a failure; a
poison-worm gnaweth at their heart. Then
let them see to it that their dying is
all the more a success.

Many never become sweet; they rot even
in the summer. It is cowardice that
holdeth them fast to their branches.

Far too many live, and far too long hang
they on their branches. Would that a
storm came and shook all this rottenness
and worm-eatenness from the tree!

Would that there came preachers of
SPEEDY death! Those would be the
appropriate storms and agitators of the
trees of life! But I hear only slow
death preached, and patience with all
that is “earthly.”

Ah! ye preach patience with what is
earthly? This earthly is it that hath
too much patience with you, ye
blasphemers!

Verily, too early died that Hebrew whom
the preachers of slow death honour: and
to many hath it proved a calamity that
he died too early.

As yet had he known only tears, and the
melancholy of the Hebrews, together with
the hatred of the good and just--the
Hebrew Jesus: then was he seized with
the longing for death.

Had he but remained in the wilderness,
and far from the good and just! Then,
perhaps, would he have learned to live,
and love the earth--and laughter also!

Believe it, my brethren! He died too
early; he himself would have disavowed
his doctrine had he attained to my age!
Noble enough was he to disavow!

But he was still immature. Immaturely
loveth the youth, and immaturely also
hateth he man and earth. Confined and
awkward are still his soul and the wings
of his spirit.

But in man there is more of the child
than in the youth, and less of
melancholy: better understandeth he
about life and death.

Free for death, and free in death; a
holy Naysayer, when there is no longer
time for Yea: thus understandeth he
about death and life.

That your dying may not be a reproach to
man and the earth, my friends: that do I
solicit from the honey of your soul.

In your dying shall your spirit and your
virtue still shine like an evening
after-glow around the earth: otherwise
your dying hath been unsatisfactory.

Thus will I die myself, that ye friends
may love the earth more for my sake; and
earth will I again become, to have rest
in her that bore me.

Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw
his ball. Now be ye friends the heirs of
my goal; to you throw I the golden
ball.

Best of all, do I see you, my friends,
throw the golden ball! And so tarry I
still a little while on the
earth--pardon me for it!

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XXII. THE BESTOWING VIRTUE.

1.

When Zarathustra had taken leave of the
town to which his heart was attached,
the name of which is “The Pied Cow,”
there followed him many people who
called themselves his disciples, and
kept him company. Thus came they to a
crossroad. Then Zarathustra told them
that he now wanted to go alone; for he
was fond of going alone. His disciples,
however, presented him at his departure
with a staff, on the golden handle of
which a serpent twined round the sun.
Zarathustra rejoiced on account of the
staff, and supported himself thereon;
then spake he thus to his disciples:

Tell me, pray: how came gold to the
highest value? Because it is uncommon,
and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft
in lustre; it always bestoweth itself.

Only as image of the highest virtue came
gold to the highest value. Goldlike,
beameth the glance of the bestower.
Gold-lustre maketh peace between moon
and sun.

Uncommon is the highest virtue, and
unprofiting, beaming is it, and soft of
lustre: a bestowing virtue is the
highest virtue.

Verily, I divine you well, my disciples:
ye strive like me for the bestowing
virtue. What should ye have in common
with cats and wolves?

It is your thirst to become sacrifices
and gifts yourselves: and therefore have
ye the thirst to accumulate all riches
in your soul.

Insatiably striveth your soul for
treasures and jewels, because your
virtue is insatiable in desiring to
bestow.

Ye constrain all things to flow towards
you and into you, so that they shall
flow back again out of your fountain as
the gifts of your love.

Verily, an appropriator of all values
must such bestowing love become; but
healthy and holy, call I this
selfishness.--

Another selfishness is there, an
all-too-poor and hungry kind, which
would always steal--the selfishness of
the sick, the sickly selfishness.

With the eye of the thief it looketh
upon all that is lustrous; with the
craving of hunger it measureth him who
hath abundance; and ever doth it prowl
round the tables of bestowers.

Sickness speaketh in such craving, and
invisible degeneration; of a sickly
body, speaketh the larcenous craving of
this selfishness.

Tell me, my brother, what do we think
bad, and worst of all? Is it not
DEGENERATION?--And we always suspect
degeneration when the bestowing soul is
lacking.

Upward goeth our course from genera on
to super-genera. But a horror to us is
the degenerating sense, which saith:
“All for myself.”

Upward soareth our sense: thus is it a
simile of our body, a simile of an
elevation. Such similes of elevations
are the names of the virtues.

Thus goeth the body through history, a
becomer and fighter. And the
spirit--what is it to the body? Its
fights’ and victories’ herald, its
companion and echo.

Similes, are all names of good and evil;
they do not speak out, they only hint. A
fool who seeketh knowledge from them!

Give heed, my brethren, to every hour
when your spirit would speak in similes:
there is the origin of your virtue.

Elevated is then your body, and raised
up; with its delight, enraptureth it the
spirit; so that it becometh creator, and
valuer, and lover, and everything’s
benefactor.

When your heart overfloweth broad and
full like the river, a blessing and a
danger to the lowlanders: there is the
origin of your virtue.

When ye are exalted above praise and
blame, and your will would command all
things, as a loving one’s will: there is
the origin of your virtue.

When ye despise pleasant things, and the
effeminate couch, and cannot couch far
enough from the effeminate: there is the
origin of your virtue.

When ye are willers of one will, and
when that change of every need is
needful to you: there is the origin of
your virtue.

Verily, a new good and evil is it!
Verily, a new deep murmuring, and the
voice of a new fountain!

Power is it, this new virtue; a ruling
thought is it, and around it a subtle
soul: a golden sun, with the serpent of
knowledge around it.

2.

Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and
looked lovingly on his disciples. Then
he continued to speak thus--and his
voice had changed:

Remain true to the earth, my brethren,
with the power of your virtue! Let your
bestowing love and your knowledge be
devoted to be the meaning of the earth!
Thus do I pray and conjure you.

Let it not fly away from the earthly and
beat against eternal walls with its
wings! Ah, there hath always been so
much flown-away virtue!

Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue
back to the earth--yea, back to body and
life: that it may give to the earth its
meaning, a human meaning!

A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as
well as virtue flown away and blundered.
Alas! in our body dwelleth still all
this delusion and blundering: body and
will hath it there become.

A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as
well as virtue attempted and erred. Yea,
an attempt hath man been. Alas, much
ignorance and error hath become embodied
in us!

Not only the rationality of
millenniums--also their madness,
breaketh out in us. Dangerous is it to
be an heir.

Still fight we step by step with the
giant Chance, and over all mankind hath
hitherto ruled nonsense, the
lack-of-sense.

Let your spirit and your virtue be
devoted to the sense of the earth, my
brethren: let the value of everything be
determined anew by you! Therefore shall
ye be fighters! Therefore shall ye be
creators!

Intelligently doth the body purify
itself; attempting with intelligence it
exalteth itself; to the discerners all
impulses sanctify themselves; to the
exalted the soul becometh joyful.

Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou
also heal thy patient. Let it be his
best cure to see with his eyes him who
maketh himself whole.

A thousand paths are there which have
never yet been trodden; a thousand
salubrities and hidden islands of life.
Unexhausted and undiscovered is still
man and man’s world.

Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones!
From the future come winds with stealthy
pinions, and to fine ears good tidings
are proclaimed.

Ye lonesome ones of to-day, ye seceding
ones, ye shall one day be a people: out
of you who have chosen yourselves, shall
a chosen people arise:--and out of it
the Superman.

Verily, a place of healing shall the
earth become! And already is a new odour
diffused around it, a salvation-bringing
odour--and a new hope!

3.

When Zarathustra had spoken these words,
he paused, like one who had not said his
last word; and long did he balance the
staff doubtfully in his hand. At last he
spake thus--and his voice had changed:

I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also
now go away, and alone! So will I have
it.

Verily, I advise you: depart from me,
and guard yourselves against
Zarathustra! And better still: be
ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath deceived
you.

The man of knowledge must be able not
only to love his enemies, but also to
hate his friends.

One requiteth a teacher badly if one
remain merely a scholar. And why will ye
not pluck at my wreath?

Ye venerate me; but what if your
veneration should some day collapse?
Take heed lest a statue crush you!

Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But
of what account is Zarathustra! Ye are
my believers: but of what account are
all believers!

Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then
did ye find me. So do all believers;
therefore all belief is of so little
account.

Now do I bid you lose me and find
yourselves; and only when ye have all
denied me, will I return unto you.

Verily, with other eyes, my brethren,
shall I then seek my lost ones; with
another love shall I then love you.

And once again shall ye have become
friends unto me, and children of one
hope: then will I be with you for the
third time, to celebrate the great
noontide with you.

And it is the great noontide, when man
is in the middle of his course between
animal and Superman, and celebrateth his
advance to the evening as his highest
hope: for it is the advance to a new
morning.

At such time will the down-goer bless
himself, that he should be an over-goer;
and the sun of his knowledge will be at
noontide.

“DEAD ARE ALL THE GODS: NOW DO WE DESIRE
THE SUPERMAN TO LIVE.”--Let this be our
final will at the great noontide!--
final will at the great noontide!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.


