THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA.

THIRD PART.

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

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

“He who climbeth on the highest
mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays
and tragic realities.”--ZARATHUSTRA, I.,
“Reading and Writing.”



XLV. THE WANDERER.

Then, when it was about midnight,
Zarathustra went his way over the ridge
of the isle, that he might arrive early
in the morning at the other coast;
because there he meant to embark. For
there was a good roadstead there, in
which foreign ships also liked to
anchor: those ships took many people
with them, who wished to cross over from
the Happy Isles. So when Zarathustra
thus ascended the mountain, he thought
on the way of his many solitary
wanderings from youth onwards, and how
many mountains and ridges and summits he
had already climbed.

I am a wanderer and mountain-climber,
said he to his heart, I love not the
plains, and it seemeth I cannot long sit
still.

And whatever may still overtake me as
fate and experience--a wandering will be
therein, and a mountain-climbing: in the
end one experienceth only oneself.

The time is now past when accidents
could befall me; and what COULD now fall
to my lot which would not already be
mine own!

It returneth only, it cometh home to me
at last--mine own Self, and such of it
as hath been long abroad, and scattered
among things and accidents.

And one thing more do I know: I stand
now before my last summit, and before
that which hath been longest reserved
for me. Ah, my hardest path must I
ascend! Ah, I have begun my lonesomest
wandering!

He, however, who is of my nature doth
not avoid such an hour: the hour that
saith unto him: Now only dost thou go
the way to thy greatness! Summit and
abyss--these are now comprised
together!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now
hath it become thy last refuge, what was
hitherto thy last danger!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: it
must now be thy best courage that there
is no longer any path behind thee!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness:
here shall no one steal after thee! Thy
foot itself hath effaced the path behind
thee, and over it standeth written:
Impossibility.

And if all ladders henceforth fail thee,
then must thou learn to mount upon thine
own head: how couldst thou mount upward
otherwise?

Upon thine own head, and beyond thine
own heart! Now must the gentlest in thee
become the hardest.

He who hath always much-indulged
himself, sickeneth at last by his
much-indulgence. Praises on what maketh
hardy! I do not praise the land where
butter and honey--flow!

To learn TO LOOK AWAY FROM oneself, is
necessary in order to see MANY
THINGS:--this hardiness is needed by
every mountain-climber.

He, however, who is obtrusive with his
eyes as a discerner, how can he ever see
more of anything than its foreground!

But thou, O Zarathustra, wouldst view
the ground of everything, and its
background: thus must thou mount even
above thyself--up, upwards, until thou
hast even thy stars UNDER thee!

Yea! To look down upon myself, and even
upon my stars: that only would I call my
SUMMIT, that hath remained for me as my
LAST summit!--

Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while
ascending, comforting his heart with
harsh maxims: for he was sore at heart
as he had never been before. And when he
had reached the top of the
mountain-ridge, behold, there lay the
other sea spread out before him: and he
stood still and was long silent. The
night, however, was cold at this height,
and clear and starry.

I recognise my destiny, said he at last,
sadly. Well! I am ready. Now hath my
last lonesomeness begun.

Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah,
this sombre nocturnal vexation! Ah, fate
and sea! To you must I now GO DOWN!

Before my highest mountain do I stand,
and before my longest wandering:
therefore must I first go deeper down
than I ever ascended:

--Deeper down into pain than I ever
ascended, even into its darkest flood!
So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready.

Whence come the highest mountains? so
did I once ask. Then did I learn that
they come out of the sea.

That testimony is inscribed on their
stones, and on the walls of their
summits. Out of the deepest must the
highest come to its height.--

Thus spake Zarathustra on the ridge of
the mountain where it was cold: when,
however, he came into the vicinity of
the sea, and at last stood alone amongst
the cliffs, then had he become weary on
his way, and eagerer than ever before.

Everything as yet sleepeth, said he;
even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and
strangely doth its eye gaze upon me.

But it breatheth warmly--I feel it. And
I feel also that it dreameth. It tosseth
about dreamily on hard pillows.

Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil
recollections! Or evil expectations?

Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky
monster, and angry with myself even for
thy sake.

Ah, that my hand hath not strength
enough! Gladly, indeed, would I free
thee from evil dreams!--

And while Zarathustra thus spake, he
laughed at himself with melancholy and
bitterness. What! Zarathustra, said he,
wilt thou even sing consolation to the
sea?

Ah, thou amiable fool, Zarathustra, thou
too-blindly confiding one! But thus hast
thou ever been: ever hast thou
approached confidently all that is
terrible.

Every monster wouldst thou caress. A
whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft
on its paw--: and immediately wert thou
ready to love and lure it.

LOVE is the danger of the lonesomest
one, love to anything, IF IT ONLY LIVE!
Laughable, verily, is my folly and my
modesty in love!--

Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed
thereby a second time. Then, however, he
thought of his abandoned friends--and as
if he had done them a wrong with his
thoughts, he upbraided himself because
of his thoughts. And forthwith it came
to pass that the laugher wept--with
anger and longing wept Zarathustra
bitterly.



XLVI. THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA.

1.

When it got abroad among the sailors
that Zarathustra was on board the
ship--for a man who came from the Happy
Isles had gone on board along with
him,--there was great curiosity and
expectation. But Zarathustra kept silent
for two days, and was cold and deaf with
sadness; so that he neither answered
looks nor questions. On the evening of
the second day, however, he again opened
his ears, though he still kept silent:
for there were many curious and
dangerous things to be heard on board
the ship, which came from afar, and was
to go still further. Zarathustra,
however, was fond of all those who make
distant voyages, and dislike to live
without danger. And behold! when
listening, his own tongue was at last
loosened, and the ice of his heart
broke. Then did he begin to speak
thus:

To you, the daring venturers and
adventurers, and whoever hath embarked
with cunning sails upon frightful
seas,--

To you the enigma-intoxicated, the
twilight-enjoyers, whose souls are
allured by flutes to every treacherous
gulf:

--For ye dislike to grope at a thread
with cowardly hand; and where ye can
DIVINE, there do ye hate to
CALCULATE--

To you only do I tell the enigma that I
SAW--the vision of the lonesomest
one.--

Gloomily walked I lately in
corpse-coloured twilight--gloomily and
sternly, with compressed lips. Not only
one sun had set for me.

A path which ascended daringly among
boulders, an evil, lonesome path, which
neither herb nor shrub any longer
cheered, a mountain-path, crunched under
the daring of my foot.

Mutely marching over the scornful
clinking of pebbles, trampling the stone
that let it slip: thus did my foot force
its way upwards.

Upwards:--in spite of the spirit that
drew it downwards, towards the abyss,
the spirit of gravity, my devil and
arch-enemy.

Upwards:--although it sat upon me,
half-dwarf, half-mole; paralysed,
paralysing; dripping lead in mine ear,
and thoughts like drops of lead into my
brain.

“O Zarathustra,” it whispered
scornfully, syllable by syllable, “thou
stone of wisdom! Thou threwest thyself
high, but every thrown stone
must--fall!

O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom,
thou sling-stone, thou star-destroyer!
Thyself threwest thou so high,--but
every thrown stone--must fall!

Condemned of thyself, and to thine own
stoning: O Zarathustra, far indeed
threwest thou thy stone--but upon
THYSELF will it recoil!”

Then was the dwarf silent; and it lasted
long. The silence, however, oppressed
me; and to be thus in pairs, one is
verily lonesomer than when alone!

I ascended, I ascended, I dreamt, I
thought,--but everything oppressed me. A
sick one did I resemble, whom bad
torture wearieth, and a worse dream
reawakeneth out of his first sleep.--

But there is something in me which I
call courage: it hath hitherto slain for
me every dejection. This courage at last
bade me stand still and say: “Dwarf!
Thou! Or I!”--

For courage is the best slayer,--courage
which ATTACKETH: for in every attack
there is sound of triumph.

Man, however, is the most courageous
animal: thereby hath he overcome every
animal. With sound of triumph hath he
overcome every pain; human pain,
however, is the sorest pain.

Courage slayeth also giddiness at
abysses: and where doth man not stand at
abysses! Is not seeing itself--seeing
abysses?

Courage is the best slayer: courage
slayeth also fellow-suffering.
Fellow-suffering, however, is the
deepest abyss: as deeply as man looketh
into life, so deeply also doth he look
into suffering.

Courage, however, is the best slayer,
courage which attacketh: it slayeth even
death itself; for it saith: “WAS THAT
life? Well! Once more!”

In such speech, however, there is much
sound of triumph. He who hath ears to
hear, let him hear.--

2.

“Halt, dwarf!” said I. “Either I--or
thou! I, however, am the stronger of the
two:--thou knowest not mine abysmal
thought! IT--couldst thou not endure!”

Then happened that which made me
lighter: for the dwarf sprang from my
shoulder, the prying sprite! And it
squatted on a stone in front of me.
There was however a gateway just where
we halted.

“Look at this gateway! Dwarf!” I
continued, “it hath two faces. Two roads
come together here: these hath no one
yet gone to the end of.

This long lane backwards: it continueth
for an eternity. And that long lane
forward--that is another eternity.

They are antithetical to one another,
these roads; they directly abut on one
another:--and it is here, at this
gateway, that they come together. The
name of the gateway is inscribed above:
‘This Moment.’

But should one follow them further--and
ever further and further on, thinkest
thou, dwarf, that these roads would be
eternally antithetical?”--

“Everything straight lieth,” murmured
the dwarf, contemptuously. “All truth is
crooked; time itself is a circle.”

“Thou spirit of gravity!” said I
wrathfully, “do not take it too lightly!
Or I shall let thee squat where thou
squattest, Haltfoot,--and I carried thee
HIGH!”

“Observe,” continued I, “This Moment!
From the gateway, This Moment, there
runneth a long eternal lane BACKWARDS:
behind us lieth an eternity.

Must not whatever CAN run its course of
all things, have already run along that
lane? Must not whatever CAN happen of
all things have already happened,
resulted, and gone by?

And if everything have already existed,
what thinkest thou, dwarf, of This
Moment? Must not this gateway also--have
already existed?

And are not all things closely bound
together in such wise that This Moment
draweth all coming things after it?
CONSEQUENTLY--itself also?

For whatever CAN run its course of all
things, also in this long lane
OUTWARD--MUST it once more run!--

And this slow spider which creepeth in
the moonlight, and this moonlight
itself, and thou and I in this gateway
whispering together, whispering of
eternal things--must we not all have
already existed?

--And must we not return and run in that
other lane out before us, that long
weird lane--must we not eternally
return?”--

Thus did I speak, and always more
softly: for I was afraid of mine own
thoughts, and arrear-thoughts. Then,
suddenly did I hear a dog HOWL near
me.

Had I ever heard a dog howl thus? My
thoughts ran back. Yes! When I was a
child, in my most distant childhood:

--Then did I hear a dog howl thus. And
saw it also, with hair bristling, its
head upwards, trembling in the stillest
midnight, when even dogs believe in
ghosts:

--So that it excited my commiseration.
For just then went the full moon, silent
as death, over the house; just then did
it stand still, a glowing globe--at rest
on the flat roof, as if on some one’s
property:--

Thereby had the dog been terrified: for
dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And
when I again heard such howling, then
did it excite my commiseration once
more.

Where was now the dwarf? And the
gateway? And the spider? And all the
whispering? Had I dreamt? Had I
awakened? ‘Twixt rugged rocks did I
suddenly stand alone, dreary in the
dreariest moonlight.

BUT THERE LAY A MAN! And there! The dog
leaping, bristling, whining--now did it
see me coming--then did it howl again,
then did it CRY:--had I ever heard a dog
cry so for help?

And verily, what I saw, the like had I
never seen. A young shepherd did I see,
writhing, choking, quivering, with
distorted countenance, and with a heavy
black serpent hanging out of his
mouth.

Had I ever seen so much loathing and
pale horror on one countenance? He had
perhaps gone to sleep? Then had the
serpent crawled into his throat--there
had it bitten itself fast.

My hand pulled at the serpent, and
pulled:--in vain! I failed to pull the
serpent out of his throat. Then there
cried out of me: “Bite! Bite!

Its head off! Bite!”--so cried it out of
me; my horror, my hatred, my loathing,
my pity, all my good and my bad cried
with one voice out of me.--

Ye daring ones around me! Ye venturers
and adventurers, and whoever of you have
embarked with cunning sails on
unexplored seas! Ye enigma-enjoyers!

Solve unto me the enigma that I then
beheld, interpret unto me the vision of
the lonesomest one!

For it was a vision and a
foresight:--WHAT did I then behold in
parable? And WHO is it that must come
some day?

WHO is the shepherd into whose throat
the serpent thus crawled? WHO is the man
into whose throat all the heaviest and
blackest will thus crawl?

--The shepherd however bit as my cry had
admonished him; he bit with a strong
bite! Far away did he spit the head of
the serpent--: and sprang up.--

No longer shepherd, no longer man--a
transfigured being, a light-surrounded
being, that LAUGHED! Never on earth
laughed a man as HE laughed!

O my brethren, I heard a laughter which
was no human laughter,--and now gnaweth
a thirst at me, a longing that is never
allayed.

My longing for that laughter gnaweth at
me: oh, how can I still endure to live!
And how could I endure to die at
present!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XLVII. INVOLUNTARY BLISS.

With such enigmas and bitterness in his
heart did Zarathustra sail o’er the sea.
When, however, he was four day-journeys
from the Happy Isles and from his
friends, then had he surmounted all his
pain--: triumphantly and with firm foot
did he again accept his fate. And then
talked Zarathustra in this wise to his
exulting conscience:

Alone am I again, and like to be so,
alone with the pure heaven, and the open
sea; and again is the afternoon around
me.

On an afternoon did I find my friends
for the first time; on an afternoon,
also, did I find them a second time:--at
the hour when all light becometh
stiller.

For whatever happiness is still on its
way ‘twixt heaven and earth, now seeketh
for lodging a luminous soul: WITH
HAPPINESS hath all light now become
stiller.

O afternoon of my life! Once did my
happiness also descend to the valley
that it might seek a lodging: then did
it find those open hospitable souls.

O afternoon of my life! What did I not
surrender that I might have one thing:
this living plantation of my thoughts,
and this dawn of my highest hope!

Companions did the creating one once
seek, and children of HIS hope: and lo,
it turned out that he could not find
them, except he himself should first
create them.

Thus am I in the midst of my work, to my
children going, and from them returning:
for the sake of his children must
Zarathustra perfect himself.

For in one’s heart one loveth only one’s
child and one’s work; and where there is
great love to oneself, then is it the
sign of pregnancy: so have I found it.

Still are my children verdant in their
first spring, standing nigh one another,
and shaken in common by the winds, the
trees of my garden and of my best
soil.

And verily, where such trees stand
beside one another, there ARE Happy
Isles!

But one day will I take them up, and put
each by itself alone: that it may learn
lonesomeness and defiance and
prudence.

Gnarled and crooked and with flexible
hardness shall it then stand by the sea,
a living lighthouse of unconquerable
life.

Yonder where the storms rush down into
the sea, and the snout of the mountain
drinketh water, shall each on a time
have his day and night watches, for HIS
testing and recognition.

Recognised and tested shall each be, to
see if he be of my type and lineage:--if
he be master of a long will, silent even
when he speaketh, and giving in such
wise that he TAKETH in giving:--

--So that he may one day become my
companion, a fellow-creator and
fellow-enjoyer with Zarathustra:--such a
one as writeth my will on my tables, for
the fuller perfection of all things.

And for his sake and for those like him,
must I perfect MYSELF: therefore do I
now avoid my happiness, and present
myself to every misfortune--for MY final
testing and recognition.

And verily, it were time that I went
away; and the wanderer’s shadow and the
longest tedium and the stillest
hour--have all said unto me: “It is the
highest time!”

The word blew to me through the keyhole
and said “Come!” The door sprang
subtlely open unto me, and said “Go!”

But I lay enchained to my love for my
children: desire spread this snare for
me--the desire for love--that I should
become the prey of my children, and lose
myself in them.

Desiring--that is now for me to have
lost myself. I POSSESS YOU, MY CHILDREN!
In this possessing shall everything be
assurance and nothing desire.

But brooding lay the sun of my love upon
me, in his own juice stewed
Zarathustra,--then did shadows and
doubts fly past me.

For frost and winter I now longed: “Oh,
that frost and winter would again make
me crack and crunch!” sighed I:--then
arose icy mist out of me.

My past burst its tomb, many pains
buried alive woke up--: fully slept had
they merely, concealed in
corpse-clothes.

So called everything unto me in signs:
“It is time!” But I--heard not, until at
last mine abyss moved, and my thought
bit me.

Ah, abysmal thought, which art MY
thought! When shall I find strength to
hear thee burrowing, and no longer
tremble?

To my very throat throbbeth my heart
when I hear thee burrowing! Thy muteness
even is like to strangle me, thou
abysmal mute one!

As yet have I never ventured to call
thee UP; it hath been enough that
I--have carried thee about with me! As
yet have I not been strong enough for my
final lion-wantonness and playfulness.

Sufficiently formidable unto me hath thy
weight ever been: but one day shall I
yet find the strength and the lion’s
voice which will call thee up!

When I shall have surmounted myself
therein, then will I surmount myself
also in that which is greater; and a
VICTORY shall be the seal of my
perfection!--

Meanwhile do I sail along on uncertain
seas; chance flattereth me,
smooth-tongued chance; forward and
backward do I gaze--, still see I no
end.

As yet hath the hour of my final
struggle not come to me--or doth it come
to me perhaps just now? Verily, with
insidious beauty do sea and life gaze
upon me round about:

O afternoon of my life! O happiness
before eventide! O haven upon high seas!
O peace in uncertainty! How I distrust
all of you!

Verily, distrustful am I of your
insidious beauty! Like the lover am I,
who distrusteth too sleek smiling.

As he pusheth the best-beloved before
him--tender even in severity, the
jealous one--, so do I push this
blissful hour before me.

Away with thee, thou blissful hour! With
thee hath there come to me an
involuntary bliss! Ready for my severest
pain do I here stand:--at the wrong time
hast thou come!

Away with thee, thou blissful hour!
Rather harbour there--with my children!
Hasten! and bless them before eventide
with MY happiness!

There, already approacheth eventide: the
sun sinketh. Away--my happiness!--

Thus spake Zarathustra. And he waited
for his misfortune the whole night; but
he waited in vain. The night remained
clear and calm, and happiness itself
came nigher and nigher unto him. Towards
morning, however, Zarathustra laughed to
his heart, and said mockingly:
“Happiness runneth after me. That is
because I do not run after women.
Happiness, however, is a woman.”



XLVIII. BEFORE SUNRISE.

O heaven above me, thou pure, thou deep
heaven! Thou abyss of light! Gazing on
thee, I tremble with divine desires.

Up to thy height to toss myself--that is
MY depth! In thy purity to hide
myself--that is MINE innocence!

The God veileth his beauty: thus hidest
thou thy stars. Thou speakest not: THUS
proclaimest thou thy wisdom unto me.

Mute o’er the raging sea hast thou risen
for me to-day; thy love and thy modesty
make a revelation unto my raging soul.

In that thou camest unto me beautiful,
veiled in thy beauty, in that thou
spakest unto me mutely, obvious in thy
wisdom:

Oh, how could I fail to divine all the
modesty of thy soul! BEFORE the sun
didst thou come unto me--the lonesomest
one.

We have been friends from the beginning:
to us are grief, gruesomeness, and
ground common; even the sun is common to
us.

We do not speak to each other, because
we know too much--: we keep silent to
each other, we smile our knowledge to
each other.

Art thou not the light of my fire? Hast
thou not the sister-soul of mine
insight?

Together did we learn everything;
together did we learn to ascend beyond
ourselves to ourselves, and to smile
uncloudedly:--

--Uncloudedly to smile down out of
luminous eyes and out of miles of
distance, when under us constraint and
purpose and guilt steam like rain.

And wandered I alone, for WHAT did my
soul hunger by night and in labyrinthine
paths? And climbed I mountains, WHOM did
I ever seek, if not thee, upon
mountains?

And all my wandering and
mountain-climbing: a necessity was it
merely, and a makeshift of the unhandy
one:--to FLY only, wanteth mine entire
will, to fly into THEE!

And what have I hated more than passing
clouds, and whatever tainteth thee? And
mine own hatred have I even hated,
because it tainted thee!

The passing clouds I detest--those
stealthy cats of prey: they take from
thee and me what is common to us--the
vast unbounded Yea- and Amen-saying.

These mediators and mixers we
detest--the passing clouds: those
half-and-half ones, that have neither
learned to bless nor to curse from the
heart.

Rather will I sit in a tub under a
closed heaven, rather will I sit in the
abyss without heaven, than see thee,
thou luminous heaven, tainted with
passing clouds!

And oft have I longed to pin them fast
with the jagged gold-wires of lightning,
that I might, like the thunder, beat the
drum upon their kettle-bellies:--

--An angry drummer, because they rob me
of thy Yea and Amen!--thou heaven above
me, thou pure, thou luminous heaven!
Thou abyss of light!--because they rob
thee of MY Yea and Amen.

For rather will I have noise and
thunders and tempest-blasts, than this
discreet, doubting cat-repose; and also
amongst men do I hate most of all the
soft-treaders, and half-and-half ones,
and the doubting, hesitating, passing
clouds.

And “he who cannot bless shall LEARN to
curse!”--this clear teaching dropt unto
me from the clear heaven; this star
standeth in my heaven even in dark
nights.

I, however, am a blesser and a
Yea-sayer, if thou be but around me,
thou pure, thou luminous heaven! Thou
abyss of light!--into all abysses do I
then carry my beneficent Yea-saying.

A blesser have I become and a Yea-sayer:
and therefore strove I long and was a
striver, that I might one day get my
hands free for blessing.

This, however, is my blessing: to stand
above everything as its own heaven, its
round roof, its azure bell and eternal
security: and blessed is he who thus
blesseth!

For all things are baptized at the font
of eternity, and beyond good and evil;
good and evil themselves, however, are
but fugitive shadows and damp
afflictions and passing clouds.

Verily, it is a blessing and not a
blasphemy when I teach that “above all
things there standeth the heaven of
chance, the heaven of innocence, the
heaven of hazard, the heaven of
wantonness.”

“Of Hazard”--that is the oldest nobility
in the world; that gave I back to all
things; I emancipated them from bondage
under purpose.

This freedom and celestial serenity did
I put like an azure bell above all
things, when I taught that over them and
through them, no “eternal
Will”--willeth.

This wantonness and folly did I put in
place of that Will, when I taught that
“In everything there is one thing
impossible--rationality!”

A LITTLE reason, to be sure, a germ of
wisdom scattered from star to star--this
leaven is mixed in all things: for the
sake of folly, wisdom is mixed in all
things!

A little wisdom is indeed possible; but
this blessed security have I found in
all things, that they prefer--to DANCE
on the feet of chance.

O heaven above me! thou pure, thou lofty
heaven! This is now thy purity unto me,
that there is no eternal reason-spider
and reason-cobweb:--

--That thou art to me a dancing-floor
for divine chances, that thou art to me
a table of the Gods, for divine dice and
dice-players!--

But thou blushest? Have I spoken
unspeakable things? Have I abused, when
I meant to bless thee?

Or is it the shame of being two of us
that maketh thee blush!--Dost thou bid
me go and be silent, because now--DAY
cometh?

The world is deep:--and deeper than e’er
the day could read. Not everything may
be uttered in presence of day. But day
cometh: so let us part!

O heaven above me, thou modest one! thou
glowing one! O thou, my happiness before
sunrise! The day cometh: so let us
part!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



XLIX. THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE.

1.

When Zarathustra was again on the
continent, he did not go straightway to
his mountains and his cave, but made
many wanderings and questionings, and
ascertained this and that; so that he
said of himself jestingly: “Lo, a river
that floweth back unto its source in
many windings!” For he wanted to learn
what had taken place AMONG MEN during
the interval: whether they had become
greater or smaller. And once, when he
saw a row of new houses, he marvelled,
and said:

“What do these houses mean? Verily, no
great soul put them up as its simile!

Did perhaps a silly child take them out
of its toy-box? Would that another child
put them again into the box!

And these rooms and chambers--can MEN go
out and in there? They seem to be made
for silk dolls; or for dainty-eaters,
who perhaps let others eat with them.”

And Zarathustra stood still and
meditated. At last he said sorrowfully:
“There hath EVERYTHING become smaller!

Everywhere do I see lower doorways: he
who is of MY type can still go
therethrough, but--he must stoop!

Oh, when shall I arrive again at my
home, where I shall no longer have to
stoop--shall no longer have to stoop
BEFORE THE SMALL ONES!”--And Zarathustra
sighed, and gazed into the distance.--

The same day, however, he gave his
discourse on the bedwarfing virtue.

2.

I pass through this people and keep mine
eyes open: they do not forgive me for
not envying their virtues.

They bite at me, because I say unto them
that for small people, small virtues are
necessary--and because it is hard for me
to understand that small people are
NECESSARY!

Here am I still like a cock in a strange
farm-yard, at which even the hens peck:
but on that account I am not unfriendly
to the hens.

I am courteous towards them, as towards
all small annoyances; to be prickly
towards what is small, seemeth to me
wisdom for hedgehogs.

They all speak of me when they sit
around their fire in the evening--they
speak of me, but no one thinketh--of
me!

This is the new stillness which I have
experienced: their noise around me
spreadeth a mantle over my thoughts.

They shout to one another: “What is this
gloomy cloud about to do to us? Let us
see that it doth not bring a plague upon
us!”

And recently did a woman seize upon her
child that was coming unto me: “Take the
children away,” cried she, “such eyes
scorch children’s souls.”

They cough when I speak: they think
coughing an objection to strong
winds--they divine nothing of the
boisterousness of my happiness!

“We have not yet time for
Zarathustra”--so they object; but what
matter about a time that “hath no time”
for Zarathustra?

And if they should altogether praise me,
how could I go to sleep on THEIR praise?
A girdle of spines is their praise unto
me: it scratcheth me even when I take it
off.

And this also did I learn among them:
the praiser doeth as if he gave back; in
truth, however, he wanteth more to be
given him!

Ask my foot if their lauding and luring
strains please it! Verily, to such
measure and ticktack, it liketh neither
to dance nor to stand still.

To small virtues would they fain lure
and laud me; to the ticktack of small
happiness would they fain persuade my
foot.

I pass through this people and keep mine
eyes open; they have become SMALLER, and
ever become smaller:--THE REASON THEREOF
IS THEIR DOCTRINE OF HAPPINESS AND
VIRTUE.

For they are moderate also in
virtue,--because they want comfort. With
comfort, however, moderate virtue only
is compatible.

To be sure, they also learn in their way
to stride on and stride forward: that, I
call their HOBBLING.--Thereby they
become a hindrance to all who are in
haste.

And many of them go forward, and look
backwards thereby, with stiffened necks:
those do I like to run up against.

Foot and eye shall not lie, nor give the
lie to each other. But there is much
lying among small people.

Some of them WILL, but most of them are
WILLED. Some of them are genuine, but
most of them are bad actors.

There are actors without knowing it
amongst them, and actors without
intending it--, the genuine ones are
always rare, especially the genuine
actors.

Of man there is little here: therefore
do their women masculinise themselves.
For only he who is man enough,
will--SAVE THE WOMAN in woman.

And this hypocrisy found I worst amongst
them, that even those who command feign
the virtues of those who serve.

“I serve, thou servest, we serve”--so
chanteth here even the hypocrisy of the
rulers--and alas! if the first lord be
ONLY the first servant!

Ah, even upon their hypocrisy did mine
eyes’ curiosity alight; and well did I
divine all their fly-happiness, and
their buzzing around sunny
window-panes.

So much kindness, so much weakness do I
see. So much justice and pity, so much
weakness.

Round, fair, and considerate are they to
one another, as grains of sand are
round, fair, and considerate to grains
of sand.

Modestly to embrace a small
happiness--that do they call
“submission”! and at the same time they
peer modestly after a new small
happiness.

In their hearts they want simply one
thing most of all: that no one hurt
them. Thus do they anticipate every
one’s wishes and do well unto every
one.

That, however, is COWARDICE, though it
be called “virtue.”--

And when they chance to speak harshly,
those small people, then do _I_ hear
therein only their hoarseness--every
draught of air maketh them hoarse.

Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues
have shrewd fingers. But they lack
fists: their fingers do not know how to
creep behind fists.

Virtue for them is what maketh modest
and tame: therewith have they made the
wolf a dog, and man himself man’s best
domestic animal.

“We set our chair in the MIDST”--so
saith their smirking unto me--“and as
far from dying gladiators as from
satisfied swine.”

That, however, is--MEDIOCRITY, though it
be called moderation.--

3.

I pass through this people and let fall
many words: but they know neither how to
take nor how to retain them.

They wonder why I came not to revile
venery and vice; and verily, I came not
to warn against pickpockets either!

They wonder why I am not ready to abet
and whet their wisdom: as if they had
not yet enough of wiseacres, whose
voices grate on mine ear like
slate-pencils!

And when I call out: “Curse all the
cowardly devils in you, that would fain
whimper and fold the hands and
adore”--then do they shout: “Zarathustra
is godless.”

And especially do their teachers of
submission shout this;--but precisely in
their ears do I love to cry: “Yea! I AM
Zarathustra, the godless!”

Those teachers of submission! Wherever
there is aught puny, or sickly, or
scabby, there do they creep like lice;
and only my disgust preventeth me from
cracking them.

Well! This is my sermon for THEIR ears:
I am Zarathustra the godless, who saith:
“Who is more godless than I, that I may
enjoy his teaching?”

I am Zarathustra the godless: where do I
find mine equal? And all those are mine
equals who give unto themselves their
Will, and divest themselves of all
submission.

I am Zarathustra the godless! I cook
every chance in MY pot. And only when it
hath been quite cooked do I welcome it
as MY food.

And verily, many a chance came
imperiously unto me: but still more
imperiously did my WILL speak unto
it,--then did it lie imploringly upon
its knees--

--Imploring that it might find home and
heart with me, and saying flatteringly:
“See, O Zarathustra, how friend only
cometh unto friend!”--

But why talk I, when no one hath MINE
ears! And so will I shout it out unto
all the winds:

Ye ever become smaller, ye small people!
Ye crumble away, ye comfortable ones! Ye
will yet perish--

--By your many small virtues, by your
many small omissions, and by your many
small submissions!

Too tender, too yielding: so is your
soil! But for a tree to become GREAT, it
seeketh to twine hard roots around hard
rocks!

Also what ye omit weaveth at the web of
all the human future; even your naught
is a cobweb, and a spider that liveth on
the blood of the future.

And when ye take, then is it like
stealing, ye small virtuous ones; but
even among knaves HONOUR saith that “one
shall only steal when one cannot rob.”

“It giveth itself”--that is also a
doctrine of submission. But I say unto
you, ye comfortable ones, that IT TAKETH
TO ITSELF, and will ever take more and
more from you!

Ah, that ye would renounce all
HALF-willing, and would decide for
idleness as ye decide for action!

Ah, that ye understood my word: “Do ever
what ye will--but first be such as CAN
WILL.

Love ever your neighbour as
yourselves--but first be such as LOVE
THEMSELVES--

--Such as love with great love, such as
love with great contempt!” Thus speaketh
Zarathustra the godless.--

But why talk I, when no one hath MINE
ears! It is still an hour too early for
me here.

Mine own forerunner am I among this
people, mine own cockcrow in dark
lanes.

But THEIR hour cometh! And there cometh
also mine! Hourly do they become
smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller,--poor
herbs! poor earth!

And SOON shall they stand before me like
dry grass and prairie, and verily, weary
of themselves--and panting for FIRE,
more than for water!

O blessed hour of the lightning! O
mystery before noontide!--Running fires
will I one day make of them, and heralds
with flaming tongues:--

--Herald shall they one day with flaming
tongues: It cometh, it is nigh, THE
GREAT NOONTIDE!

Thus spake Zarathustra.



L. ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT.

Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at
home; blue are my hands with his
friendly hand-shaking.

I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly
leave him alone. Gladly do I run away
from him; and when one runneth WELL,
then one escapeth him!

With warm feet and warm thoughts do I
run where the wind is calm--to the sunny
corner of mine olive-mount.

There do I laugh at my stern guest, and
am still fond of him; because he
cleareth my house of flies, and quieteth
many little noises.

For he suffereth it not if a gnat
wanteth to buzz, or even two of them;
also the lanes maketh he lonesome, so
that the moonlight is afraid there at
night.

A hard guest is he,--but I honour him,
and do not worship, like the
tenderlings, the pot-bellied
fire-idol.

Better even a little teeth-chattering
than idol-adoration!--so willeth my
nature. And especially have I a grudge
against all ardent, steaming, steamy
fire-idols.

Him whom I love, I love better in winter
than in summer; better do I now mock at
mine enemies, and more heartily, when
winter sitteth in my house.

Heartily, verily, even when I CREEP into
bed--: there, still laugheth and
wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my
deceptive dream laugheth.

I, a--creeper? Never in my life did I
creep before the powerful; and if ever I
lied, then did I lie out of love.
Therefore am I glad even in my
winter-bed.

A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich
one, for I am jealous of my poverty. And
in winter she is most faithful unto
me.

With a wickedness do I begin every day:
I mock at the winter with a cold bath:
on that account grumbleth my stern
house-mate.

Also do I like to tickle him with a
wax-taper, that he may finally let the
heavens emerge from ashy-grey
twilight.

For especially wicked am I in the
morning: at the early hour when the pail
rattleth at the well, and horses neigh
warmly in grey lanes:--

Impatiently do I then wait, that the
clear sky may finally dawn for me, the
snow-bearded winter-sky, the hoary one,
the white-head,--

--The winter-sky, the silent winter-sky,
which often stifleth even its sun!

Did I perhaps learn from it the long
clear silence? Or did it learn it from
me? Or hath each of us devised it
himself?

Of all good things the origin is a
thousandfold,--all good roguish things
spring into existence for joy: how could
they always do so--for once only!

A good roguish thing is also the long
silence, and to look, like the
winter-sky, out of a clear, round-eyed
countenance:--

--Like it to stifle one’s sun, and one’s
inflexible solar will: verily, this art
and this winter-roguishness have I
learnt WELL!

My best-loved wickedness and art is it,
that my silence hath learned not to
betray itself by silence.

Clattering with diction and dice, I
outwit the solemn assistants: all those
stern watchers, shall my will and
purpose elude.

That no one might see down into my depth
and into mine ultimate will--for that
purpose did I devise the long clear
silence.

Many a shrewd one did I find: he veiled
his countenance and made his water
muddy, that no one might see
therethrough and thereunder.

But precisely unto him came the shrewder
distrusters and nut-crackers: precisely
from him did they fish his
best-concealed fish!

But the clear, the honest, the
transparent--these are for me the wisest
silent ones: in them, so PROFOUND is the
depth that even the clearest water doth
not--betray it.--

Thou snow-bearded, silent, winter-sky,
thou round-eyed whitehead above me! Oh,
thou heavenly simile of my soul and its
wantonness!

And MUST I not conceal myself like one
who hath swallowed gold--lest my soul
should be ripped up?

MUST I not wear stilts, that they may
OVERLOOK my long legs--all those enviers
and injurers around me?

Those dingy, fire-warmed, used-up,
green-tinted, ill-natured souls--how
COULD their envy endure my happiness!

Thus do I show them only the ice and
winter of my peaks--and NOT that my
mountain windeth all the solar girdles
around it!

They hear only the whistling of my
winter-storms: and know NOT that I also
travel over warm seas, like longing,
heavy, hot south-winds.

They commiserate also my accidents and
chances:--but MY word saith: “Suffer the
chance to come unto me: innocent is it
as a little child!”

How COULD they endure my happiness, if I
did not put around it accidents, and
winter-privations, and bear-skin caps,
and enmantling snowflakes!

--If I did not myself commiserate their
PITY, the pity of those enviers and
injurers!

--If I did not myself sigh before them,
and chatter with cold, and patiently LET
myself be swathed in their pity!

This is the wise waggish-will and
good-will of my soul, that it CONCEALETH
NOT its winters and glacial storms; it
concealeth not its chilblains either.

To one man, lonesomeness is the flight
of the sick one; to another, it is the
flight FROM the sick ones.

Let them HEAR me chattering and sighing
with winter-cold, all those poor
squinting knaves around me! With such
sighing and chattering do I flee from
their heated rooms.

Let them sympathise with me and sigh
with me on account of my chilblains: “At
the ice of knowledge will he yet FREEZE
TO DEATH!”--so they mourn.

Meanwhile do I run with warm feet hither
and thither on mine olive-mount: in the
sunny corner of mine olive-mount do I
sing, and mock at all pity.--

Thus sang Zarathustra.



LI. ON PASSING-BY.

Thus slowly wandering through many
peoples and divers cities, did
Zarathustra return by round-about roads
to his mountains and his cave. And
behold, thereby came he unawares also to
the gate of the GREAT CITY. Here,
however, a foaming fool, with extended
hands, sprang forward to him and stood
in his way. It was the same fool whom
the people called “the ape of
Zarathustra:” for he had learned from
him something of the expression and
modulation of language, and perhaps
liked also to borrow from the store of
his wisdom. And the fool talked thus to
Zarathustra:

O Zarathustra, here is the great city:
here hast thou nothing to seek and
everything to lose.

Why wouldst thou wade through this mire?
Have pity upon thy foot! Spit rather on
the gate of the city, and--turn back!

Here is the hell for anchorites’
thoughts: here are great thoughts
seethed alive and boiled small.

Here do all great sentiments decay: here
may only rattle-boned sensations
rattle!

Smellest thou not already the shambles
and cookshops of the spirit? Steameth
not this city with the fumes of
slaughtered spirit?

Seest thou not the souls hanging like
limp dirty rags?--And they make
newspapers also out of these rags!

Hearest thou not how spirit hath here
become a verbal game? Loathsome verbal
swill doth it vomit forth!--And they
make newspapers also out of this verbal
swill.

They hound one another, and know not
whither! They inflame one another, and
know not why! They tinkle with their
pinchbeck, they jingle with their
gold.

They are cold, and seek warmth from
distilled waters: they are inflamed, and
seek coolness from frozen spirits; they
are all sick and sore through public
opinion.

All lusts and vices are here at home;
but here there are also the virtuous;
there is much appointable appointed
virtue:--

Much appointable virtue with
scribe-fingers, and hardy sitting-flesh
and waiting-flesh, blessed with small
breast-stars, and padded, haunchless
daughters.

There is here also much piety, and much
faithful spittle-licking and
spittle-backing, before the God of
Hosts.

“From on high,” drippeth the star, and
the gracious spittle; for the high,
longeth every starless bosom.

The moon hath its court, and the court
hath its moon-calves: unto all, however,
that cometh from the court do the
mendicant people pray, and all
appointable mendicant virtues.

“I serve, thou servest, we serve”--so
prayeth all appointable virtue to the
prince: that the merited star may at
last stick on the slender breast!

But the moon still revolveth around all
that is earthly: so revolveth also the
prince around what is earthliest of
all--that, however, is the gold of the
shopman.

The God of the Hosts of war is not the
God of the golden bar; the prince
proposeth, but the shopman--disposeth!

By all that is luminous and strong and
good in thee, O Zarathustra! Spit on
this city of shopmen and return back!

Here floweth all blood putridly and
tepidly and frothily through all veins:
spit on the great city, which is the
great slum where all the scum frotheth
together!

Spit on the city of compressed souls and
slender breasts, of pointed eyes and
sticky fingers--

--On the city of the obtrusive, the
brazen-faced, the pen-demagogues and
tongue-demagogues, the overheated
ambitious:--

Where everything maimed, ill-famed,
lustful, untrustful, over-mellow,
sickly-yellow and seditious, festereth
pernicious:--

--Spit on the great city and turn
back!--

Here, however, did Zarathustra interrupt
the foaming fool, and shut his
mouth.--

Stop this at once! called out
Zarathustra, long have thy speech and
thy species disgusted me!

Why didst thou live so long by the
swamp, that thou thyself hadst to become
a frog and a toad?

Floweth there not a tainted, frothy,
swamp-blood in thine own veins, when
thou hast thus learned to croak and
revile?

Why wentest thou not into the forest? Or
why didst thou not till the ground? Is
the sea not full of green islands?

I despise thy contempt; and when thou
warnedst me--why didst thou not warn
thyself?

Out of love alone shall my contempt and
my warning bird take wing; but not out
of the swamp!--

They call thee mine ape, thou foaming
fool: but I call thee my
grunting-pig,--by thy grunting, thou
spoilest even my praise of folly.

What was it that first made thee grunt?
Because no one sufficiently FLATTERED
thee:--therefore didst thou seat thyself
beside this filth, that thou mightest
have cause for much grunting,--

--That thou mightest have cause for much
VENGEANCE! For vengeance, thou vain
fool, is all thy foaming; I have divined
thee well!

But thy fools’-word injureth ME, even
when thou art right! And even if
Zarathustra’s word WERE a hundred times
justified, thou wouldst ever--DO wrong
with my word!

Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he look
on the great city and sighed, and was
long silent. At last he spake thus:

I loathe also this great city, and not
only this fool. Here and there-- there
is nothing to better, nothing to
worsen.

Woe to this great city!--And I would
that I already saw the pillar of fire in
which it will be consumed!

For such pillars of fire must precede
the great noontide. But this hath its
time and its own fate.--

This precept, however, give I unto thee,
in parting, thou fool: Where one can no
longer love, there should one--PASS
BY!--

Thus spake Zarathustra, and passed by
the fool and the great city.



LII. THE APOSTATES.

1.

Ah, lieth everything already withered
and grey which but lately stood green
and many-hued on this meadow! And how
much honey of hope did I carry hence
into my beehives!

Those young hearts have already all
become old--and not old even! only
weary, ordinary, comfortable:--they
declare it: “We have again become
pious.”

Of late did I see them run forth at
early morn with valorous steps: but the
feet of their knowledge became weary,
and now do they malign even their
morning valour!

Verily, many of them once lifted their
legs like the dancer; to them winked the
laughter of my wisdom:--then did they
bethink themselves. Just now have I seen
them bent down--to creep to the cross.

Around light and liberty did they once
flutter like gnats and young poets. A
little older, a little colder: and
already are they mystifiers, and
mumblers and mollycoddles.

Did perhaps their hearts despond,
because lonesomeness had swallowed me
like a whale? Did their ear perhaps
hearken yearningly-long for me IN VAIN,
and for my trumpet-notes and
herald-calls?

--Ah! Ever are there but few of those
whose hearts have persistent courage and
exuberance; and in such remaineth also
the spirit patient. The rest, however,
are COWARDLY.

The rest: these are always the great
majority, the common-place, the
superfluous, the far-too many--those all
are cowardly!--

Him who is of my type, will also the
experiences of my type meet on the way:
so that his first companions must be
corpses and buffoons.

His second companions, however--they
will call themselves his
BELIEVERS,--will be a living host, with
much love, much folly, much unbearded
veneration.

To those believers shall he who is of my
type among men not bind his heart; in
those spring-times and many-hued meadows
shall he not believe, who knoweth the
fickly faint-hearted human species!

COULD they do otherwise, then would they
also WILL otherwise. The half-and-half
spoil every whole. That leaves become
withered,--what is there to lament about
that!

Let them go and fall away, O
Zarathustra, and do not lament! Better
even to blow amongst them with rustling
winds,--

--Blow amongst those leaves, O
Zarathustra, that everything WITHERED
may run away from thee the faster!--

2.

“We have again become pious”--so do
those apostates confess; and some of
them are still too pusillanimous thus to
confess.

Unto them I look into the eye,--before
them I say it unto their face and unto
the blush on their cheeks: Ye are those
who again PRAY!

It is however a shame to pray! Not for
all, but for thee, and me, and whoever
hath his conscience in his head. For
THEE it is a shame to pray!

Thou knowest it well: the faint-hearted
devil in thee, which would fain fold its
arms, and place its hands in its bosom,
and take it easier:--this faint-hearted
devil persuadeth thee that “there IS a
God!”

THEREBY, however, dost thou belong to
the light-dreading type, to whom light
never permitteth repose: now must thou
daily thrust thy head deeper into
obscurity and vapour!

And verily, thou choosest the hour well:
for just now do the nocturnal birds
again fly abroad. The hour hath come for
all light-dreading people, the vesper
hour and leisure hour, when they do
not--“take leisure.”

I hear it and smell it: it hath
come--their hour for hunt and
procession, not indeed for a wild hunt,
but for a tame, lame, snuffling,
soft-treaders’, soft-prayers’ hunt,--

--For a hunt after susceptible
simpletons: all mouse-traps for the
heart have again been set! And whenever
I lift a curtain, a night-moth rusheth
out of it.

Did it perhaps squat there along with
another night-moth? For everywhere do I
smell small concealed communities; and
wherever there are closets there are new
devotees therein, and the atmosphere of
devotees.

They sit for long evenings beside one
another, and say: “Let us again become
like little children and say, ‘good
God!’”--ruined in mouths and stomachs by
the pious confectioners.

Or they look for long evenings at a
crafty, lurking cross-spider, that
preacheth prudence to the spiders
themselves, and teacheth that “under
crosses it is good for
cobweb-spinning!”

Or they sit all day at swamps with
angle-rods, and on that account think
themselves PROFOUND; but whoever fisheth
where there are no fish, I do not even
call him superficial!

Or they learn in godly-gay style to play
the harp with a hymn-poet, who would
fain harp himself into the heart of
young girls:--for he hath tired of old
girls and their praises.

Or they learn to shudder with a learned
semi-madcap, who waiteth in darkened
rooms for spirits to come to him--and
the spirit runneth away entirely!

Or they listen to an old roving howl-and
growl-piper, who hath learnt from the
sad winds the sadness of sounds; now
pipeth he as the wind, and preacheth
sadness in sad strains.

And some of them have even become
night-watchmen: they know now how to
blow horns, and go about at night and
awaken old things which have long fallen
asleep.

Five words about old things did I hear
yester-night at the garden-wall: they
came from such old, sorrowful, arid
night-watchmen.

“For a father he careth not sufficiently
for his children: human fathers do this
better!”--

“He is too old! He now careth no more
for his children,”--answered the other
night-watchman.

“HATH he then children? No one can prove
it unless he himself prove it! I have
long wished that he would for once prove
it thoroughly.”

“Prove? As if HE had ever proved
anything! Proving is difficult to him;
he layeth great stress on one’s
BELIEVING him.”

“Ay! Ay! Belief saveth him; belief in
him. That is the way with old people! So
it is with us also!”--

--Thus spake to each other the two old
night-watchmen and light-scarers, and
tooted thereupon sorrowfully on their
horns: so did it happen yester-night at
the garden-wall.

To me, however, did the heart writhe
with laughter, and was like to break; it
knew not where to go, and sunk into the
midriff.

Verily, it will be my death yet--to
choke with laughter when I see asses
drunken, and hear night-watchmen thus
doubt about God.

Hath the time not LONG since passed for
all such doubts? Who may nowadays awaken
such old slumbering, light-shunning
things!

With the old Deities hath it long since
come to an end:--and verily, a good
joyful Deity-end had they!

They did not “begloom” themselves to
death--that do people fabricate! On the
contrary, they--LAUGHED themselves to
death once on a time!

That took place when the unGodliest
utterance came from a God himself--the
utterance: “There is but one God! Thou
shalt have no other Gods before me!”--

--An old grim-beard of a God, a jealous
one, forgot himself in such wise:--

And all the Gods then laughed, and shook
upon their thrones, and exclaimed: “Is
it not just divinity that there are
Gods, but no God?”

He that hath an ear let him hear.--

Thus talked Zarathustra in the city he
loved, which is surnamed “The Pied Cow.”
For from here he had but two days to
travel to reach once more his cave and
his animals; his soul, however, rejoiced
unceasingly on account of the nighness
of his return home.



LIII. THE RETURN HOME.

O lonesomeness! My HOME, lonesomeness!
Too long have I lived wildly in wild
remoteness, to return to thee without
tears!

Now threaten me with the finger as
mothers threaten; now smile upon me as
mothers smile; now say just: “Who was it
that like a whirlwind once rushed away
from me?--

--Who when departing called out: ‘Too
long have I sat with lonesomeness; there
have I unlearned silence!’ THAT hast
thou learned now--surely?

O Zarathustra, everything do I know; and
that thou wert MORE FORSAKEN amongst the
many, thou unique one, than thou ever
wert with me!

One thing is forsakenness, another
matter is lonesomeness: THAT hast thou
now learned! And that amongst men thou
wilt ever be wild and strange:

--Wild and strange even when they love
thee: for above all they want to be
TREATED INDULGENTLY!

Here, however, art thou at home and
house with thyself; here canst thou
utter everything, and unbosom all
motives; nothing is here ashamed of
concealed, congealed feelings.

Here do all things come caressingly to
thy talk and flatter thee: for they want
to ride upon thy back. On every simile
dost thou here ride to every truth.

Uprightly and openly mayest thou here
talk to all things: and verily, it
soundeth as praise in their ears, for
one to talk to all things--directly!

Another matter, however, is
forsakenness. For, dost thou remember, O
Zarathustra? When thy bird screamed
overhead, when thou stoodest in the
forest, irresolute, ignorant where to
go, beside a corpse:--

--When thou spakest: ‘Let mine animals
lead me! More dangerous have I found it
among men than among animals:’--THAT was
forsakenness!

And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra?
When thou sattest in thine isle, a well
of wine giving and granting amongst
empty buckets, bestowing and
distributing amongst the thirsty:

--Until at last thou alone sattest
thirsty amongst the drunken ones, and
wailedst nightly: ‘Is taking not more
blessed than giving? And stealing yet
more blessed than taking?’--THAT was
forsakenness!

And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra?
When thy stillest hour came and drove
thee forth from thyself, when with
wicked whispering it said: ‘Speak and
succumb!’--

--When it disgusted thee with all thy
waiting and silence, and discouraged thy
humble courage: THAT was
forsakenness!”--

O lonesomeness! My home, lonesomeness!
How blessedly and tenderly speaketh thy
voice unto me!

We do not question each other, we do not
complain to each other; we go together
openly through open doors.

For all is open with thee and clear; and
even the hours run here on lighter feet.
For in the dark, time weigheth heavier
upon one than in the light.

Here fly open unto me all being’s words
and word-cabinets: here all being
wanteth to become words, here all
becoming wanteth to learn of me how to
talk.

Down there, however--all talking is in
vain! There, forgetting and passing-by
are the best wisdom: THAT have I learned
now!

He who would understand everything in
man must handle everything. But for that
I have too clean hands.

I do not like even to inhale their
breath; alas! that I have lived so long
among their noise and bad breaths!

O blessed stillness around me! O pure
odours around me! How from a deep breast
this stillness fetcheth pure breath! How
it hearkeneth, this blessed stillness!

But down there--there speaketh
everything, there is everything
misheard. If one announce one’s wisdom
with bells, the shopmen in the
market-place will out-jingle it with
pennies!

Everything among them talketh; no one
knoweth any longer how to understand.
Everything falleth into the water;
nothing falleth any longer into deep
wells.

Everything among them talketh, nothing
succeedeth any longer and accomplisheth
itself. Everything cackleth, but who
will still sit quietly on the nest and
hatch eggs?

Everything among them talketh,
everything is out-talked. And that which
yesterday was still too hard for time
itself and its tooth, hangeth to-day,
outchamped and outchewed, from the
mouths of the men of to-day.

Everything among them talketh,
everything is betrayed. And what was
once called the secret and secrecy of
profound souls, belongeth to-day to the
street-trumpeters and other
butterflies.

O human hubbub, thou wonderful thing!
Thou noise in dark streets! Now art thou
again behind me:--my greatest danger
lieth behind me!

In indulging and pitying lay ever my
greatest danger; and all human hubbub
wisheth to be indulged and tolerated.

With suppressed truths, with fool’s hand
and befooled heart, and rich in petty
lies of pity:--thus have I ever lived
among men.

Disguised did I sit amongst them, ready
to misjudge MYSELF that I might endure
THEM, and willingly saying to myself:
“Thou fool, thou dost not know men!”

One unlearneth men when one liveth
amongst them: there is too much
foreground in all men--what can
far-seeing, far-longing eyes do THERE!

And, fool that I was, when they
misjudged me, I indulged them on that
account more than myself, being
habitually hard on myself, and often
even taking revenge on myself for the
indulgence.

Stung all over by poisonous flies, and
hollowed like the stone by many drops of
wickedness: thus did I sit among them,
and still said to myself: “Innocent is
everything petty of its pettiness!”

Especially did I find those who call
themselves “the good,” the most
poisonous flies; they sting in all
innocence, they lie in all innocence;
how COULD they--be just towards me!

He who liveth amongst the good--pity
teacheth him to lie. Pity maketh
stifling air for all free souls. For the
stupidity of the good is unfathomable.

To conceal myself and my riches--THAT
did I learn down there: for every one
did I still find poor in spirit. It was
the lie of my pity, that I knew in every
one,

--That I saw and scented in every one,
what was ENOUGH of spirit for him, and
what was TOO MUCH!

Their stiff wise men: I call them wise,
not stiff--thus did I learn to slur over
words.

The grave-diggers dig for themselves
diseases. Under old rubbish rest bad
vapours. One should not stir up the
marsh. One should live on mountains.

With blessed nostrils do I again breathe
mountain-freedom. Freed at last is my
nose from the smell of all human
hubbub!

With sharp breezes tickled, as with
sparkling wine, SNEEZETH my soul--
sneezeth, and shouteth
self-congratulatingly: “Health to
thee!”

Thus spake Zarathustra.



LIV. THE THREE EVIL THINGS.

1.

In my dream, in my last morning-dream, I
stood to-day on a promontory-- beyond
the world; I held a pair of scales, and
WEIGHED the world.

Alas, that the rosy dawn came too early
to me: she glowed me awake, the jealous
one! Jealous is she always of the glows
of my morning-dream.

Measurable by him who hath time,
weighable by a good weigher, attainable
by strong pinions, divinable by divine
nut-crackers: thus did my dream find the
world:--

My dream, a bold sailor, half-ship,
half-hurricane, silent as the butterfly,
impatient as the falcon: how had it the
patience and leisure to-day for
world-weighing!

Did my wisdom perhaps speak secretly to
it, my laughing, wide-awake day-wisdom,
which mocketh at all “infinite worlds”?
For it saith: “Where force is, there
becometh NUMBER the master: it hath more
force.”

How confidently did my dream contemplate
this finite world, not new-fangledly,
not old-fangledly, not timidly, not
entreatingly:--

--As if a big round apple presented
itself to my hand, a ripe golden apple,
with a coolly-soft, velvety skin:--thus
did the world present itself unto
me:--

--As if a tree nodded unto me, a
broad-branched, strong-willed tree,
curved as a recline and a foot-stool for
weary travellers: thus did the world
stand on my promontory:--

--As if delicate hands carried a casket
towards me--a casket open for the
delectation of modest adoring eyes: thus
did the world present itself before me
to-day:--

--Not riddle enough to scare human love
from it, not solution enough to put to
sleep human wisdom:--a humanly good
thing was the world to me to-day, of
which such bad things are said!

How I thank my morning-dream that I thus
at to-day’s dawn, weighed the world! As
a humanly good thing did it come unto
me, this dream and heart-comforter!

And that I may do the like by day, and
imitate and copy its best, now will I
put the three worst things on the
scales, and weigh them humanly well.--

He who taught to bless taught also to
curse: what are the three best cursed
things in the world? These will I put on
the scales.

VOLUPTUOUSNESS, PASSION FOR POWER, and
SELFISHNESS: these three things have
hitherto been best cursed, and have been
in worst and falsest repute--these three
things will I weigh humanly well.

Well! Here is my promontory, and there
is the sea--IT rolleth hither unto me,
shaggily and fawningly, the old,
faithful, hundred-headed dog-monster
that I love!--

Well! Here will I hold the scales over
the weltering sea: and also a witness do
I choose to look on--thee, the
anchorite-tree, thee, the
strong-odoured, broad-arched tree that I
love!--

On what bridge goeth the now to the
hereafter? By what constraint doth the
high stoop to the low? And what
enjoineth even the highest still--to
grow upwards?--

Now stand the scales poised and at rest:
three heavy questions have I thrown in;
three heavy answers carrieth the other
scale.

2.

Voluptuousness: unto all hair-shirted
despisers of the body, a sting and
stake; and, cursed as “the world,” by
all backworldsmen: for it mocketh and
befooleth all erring, misinferring
teachers.

Voluptuousness: to the rabble, the slow
fire at which it is burnt; to all wormy
wood, to all stinking rags, the prepared
heat and stew furnace.

Voluptuousness: to free hearts, a thing
innocent and free, the garden-happiness
of the earth, all the future’s
thanks-overflow to the present.

Voluptuousness: only to the withered a
sweet poison; to the lion-willed,
however, the great cordial, and the
reverently saved wine of wines.

Voluptuousness: the great symbolic
happiness of a higher happiness and
highest hope. For to many is marriage
promised, and more than marriage,--

--To many that are more unknown to each
other than man and woman:--and who hath
fully understood HOW UNKNOWN to each
other are man and woman!

Voluptuousness:--but I will have hedges
around my thoughts, and even around my
words, lest swine and libertine should
break into my gardens!--

Passion for power: the glowing scourge
of the hardest of the heart-hard; the
cruel torture reserved for the cruellest
themselves; the gloomy flame of living
pyres.

Passion for power: the wicked gadfly
which is mounted on the vainest peoples;
the scorner of all uncertain virtue;
which rideth on every horse and on every
pride.

Passion for power: the earthquake which
breaketh and upbreaketh all that is
rotten and hollow; the rolling,
rumbling, punitive demolisher of whited
sepulchres; the flashing
interrogative-sign beside premature
answers.

Passion for power: before whose glance
man creepeth and croucheth and drudgeth,
and becometh lower than the serpent and
the swine:--until at last great contempt
crieth out of him--,

Passion for power: the terrible teacher
of great contempt, which preacheth to
their face to cities and empires: “Away
with thee!”--until a voice crieth out of
themselves: “Away with ME!”

Passion for power: which, however,
mounteth alluringly even to the pure and
lonesome, and up to self-satisfied
elevations, glowing like a love that
painteth purple felicities alluringly on
earthly heavens.

Passion for power: but who would call it
PASSION, when the height longeth to
stoop for power! Verily, nothing sick or
diseased is there in such longing and
descending!

That the lonesome height may not for
ever remain lonesome and self-sufficing;
that the mountains may come to the
valleys and the winds of the heights to
the plains:--

Oh, who could find the right prenomen
and honouring name for such longing!
“Bestowing virtue”--thus did Zarathustra
once name the unnamable.

And then it happened also,--and verily,
it happened for the first time!--that
his word blessed SELFISHNESS, the
wholesome, healthy selfishness, that
springeth from the powerful soul:--

--From the powerful soul, to which the
high body appertaineth, the handsome,
triumphing, refreshing body, around
which everything becometh a mirror:

--The pliant, persuasive body, the
dancer, whose symbol and epitome is the
self-enjoying soul. Of such bodies and
souls the self-enjoyment calleth itself
“virtue.”

With its words of good and bad doth such
self-enjoyment shelter itself as with
sacred groves; with the names of its
happiness doth it banish from itself
everything contemptible.

Away from itself doth it banish
everything cowardly; it saith:
“Bad--THAT IS cowardly!” Contemptible
seem to it the ever-solicitous, the
sighing, the complaining, and whoever
pick up the most trifling advantage.

It despiseth also all bitter-sweet
wisdom: for verily, there is also wisdom
that bloometh in the dark, a night-shade
wisdom, which ever sigheth: “All is
vain!”

Shy distrust is regarded by it as base,
and every one who wanteth oaths instead
of looks and hands: also all
over-distrustful wisdom,--for such is
the mode of cowardly souls.

Baser still it regardeth the obsequious,
doggish one, who immediately lieth on
his back, the submissive one; and there
is also wisdom that is submissive, and
doggish, and pious, and obsequious.

Hateful to it altogether, and a
loathing, is he who will never defend
himself, he who swalloweth down
poisonous spittle and bad looks, the
all-too-patient one, the all-endurer,
the all-satisfied one: for that is the
mode of slaves.

Whether they be servile before Gods and
divine spurnings, or before men and
stupid human opinions: at ALL kinds of
slaves doth it spit, this blessed
selfishness!

Bad: thus doth it call all that is
spirit-broken, and
sordidly-servile--constrained, blinking
eyes, depressed hearts, and the false
submissive style, which kisseth with
broad cowardly lips.

And spurious wisdom: so doth it call all
the wit that slaves, and hoary-headed
and weary ones affect; and especially
all the cunning, spurious-witted,
curious-witted foolishness of priests!

The spurious wise, however, all the
priests, the world-weary, and those
whose souls are of feminine and servile
nature--oh, how hath their game all
along abused selfishness!

And precisely THAT was to be virtue and
was to be called virtue--to abuse
selfishness! And “selfless”--so did they
wish themselves with good reason, all
those world-weary cowards and
cross-spiders!

But to all those cometh now the day, the
change, the sword of judgment, THE GREAT
NOONTIDE: then shall many things be
revealed!

And he who proclaimeth the EGO wholesome
and holy, and selfishness blessed,
verily, he, the prognosticator, speaketh
also what he knoweth: “BEHOLD, IT
COMETH, IT IS NIGH, THE GREAT
NOONTIDE!”

Thus spake Zarathustra.



LV. THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY.

1.

My mouthpiece--is of the people: too
coarsely and cordially do I talk for
Angora rabbits. And still stranger
soundeth my word unto all ink-fish and
pen-foxes.

My hand--is a fool’s hand: woe unto all
tables and walls, and whatever hath room
for fool’s sketching, fool’s
scrawling!

My foot--is a horse-foot; therewith do I
trample and trot over stick and stone,
in the fields up and down, and am
bedevilled with delight in all fast
racing.

My stomach--is surely an eagle’s
stomach? For it preferreth lamb’s flesh.
Certainly it is a bird’s stomach.

Nourished with innocent things, and with
few, ready and impatient to fly, to fly
away--that is now my nature: why should
there not be something of bird-nature
therein!

And especially that I am hostile to the
spirit of gravity, that is
bird-nature:--verily, deadly hostile,
supremely hostile, originally hostile!
Oh, whither hath my hostility not flown
and misflown!

Thereof could I sing a song--and WILL
sing it: though I be alone in an empty
house, and must sing it to mine own
ears.

Other singers are there, to be sure, to
whom only the full house maketh the
voice soft, the hand eloquent, the eye
expressive, the heart wakeful:--those do
I not resemble.--

2.

He who one day teacheth men to fly will
have shifted all landmarks; to him will
all landmarks themselves fly into the
air; the earth will he christen anew--as
“the light body.”

The ostrich runneth faster than the
fastest horse, but it also thrusteth its
head heavily into the heavy earth: thus
is it with the man who cannot yet fly.

Heavy unto him are earth and life, and
so WILLETH the spirit of gravity! But he
who would become light, and be a bird,
must love himself:--thus do _I_ teach.

Not, to be sure, with the love of the
sick and infected, for with them
stinketh even self-love!

One must learn to love oneself--thus do
I teach--with a wholesome and healthy
love: that one may endure to be with
oneself, and not go roving about.

Such roving about christeneth itself
“brotherly love”; with these words hath
there hitherto been the best lying and
dissembling, and especially by those who
have been burdensome to every one.

And verily, it is no commandment for
to-day and to-morrow to LEARN to love
oneself. Rather is it of all arts the
finest, subtlest, last and patientest.

For to its possessor is all possession
well concealed, and of all treasure-pits
one’s own is last excavated--so causeth
the spirit of gravity.

Almost in the cradle are we apportioned
with heavy words and worths: “good” and
“evil”--so calleth itself this dowry.
For the sake of it we are forgiven for
living.

And therefore suffereth one little
children to come unto one, to forbid
them betimes to love themselves--so
causeth the spirit of gravity.

And we--we bear loyally what is
apportioned unto us, on hard shoulders,
over rugged mountains! And when we
sweat, then do people say to us: “Yea,
life is hard to bear!”

But man himself only is hard to bear!
The reason thereof is that he carrieth
too many extraneous things on his
shoulders. Like the camel kneeleth he
down, and letteth himself be well
laden.

Especially the strong load-bearing man
in whom reverence resideth. Too many
EXTRANEOUS heavy words and worths
loadeth he upon himself--then seemeth
life to him a desert!

And verily! Many a thing also that is
OUR OWN is hard to bear! And many
internal things in man are like the
oyster--repulsive and slippery and hard
to grasp;--

So that an elegant shell, with elegant
adornment, must plead for them. But this
art also must one learn: to HAVE a
shell, and a fine appearance, and
sagacious blindness!

Again, it deceiveth about many things in
man, that many a shell is poor and
pitiable, and too much of a shell. Much
concealed goodness and power is never
dreamt of; the choicest dainties find no
tasters!

Women know that, the choicest of them: a
little fatter a little leaner-- oh, how
much fate is in so little!

Man is difficult to discover, and unto
himself most difficult of all; often
lieth the spirit concerning the soul. So
causeth the spirit of gravity.

He, however, hath discovered himself who
saith: This is MY good and evil:
therewith hath he silenced the mole and
the dwarf, who say: “Good for all, evil
for all.”

Verily, neither do I like those who call
everything good, and this world the best
of all. Those do I call the
all-satisfied.

All-satisfiedness, which knoweth how to
taste everything,--that is not the best
taste! I honour the refractory,
fastidious tongues and stomachs, which
have learned to say “I” and “Yea” and
“Nay.”

To chew and digest everything,
however--that is the genuine
swine-nature! Ever to say YE-A--that
hath only the ass learnt, and those like
it!--

Deep yellow and hot red--so wanteth MY
taste--it mixeth blood with all colours.
He, however, who whitewasheth his house,
betrayeth unto me a whitewashed soul.

With mummies, some fall in love; others
with phantoms: both alike hostile to all
flesh and blood--oh, how repugnant are
both to my taste! For I love blood.

And there will I not reside and abide
where every one spitteth and speweth:
that is now MY taste,--rather would I
live amongst thieves and perjurers.
Nobody carrieth gold in his mouth.

Still more repugnant unto me, however,
are all lickspittles; and the most
repugnant animal of man that I found,
did I christen “parasite”: it would not
love, and would yet live by love.

Unhappy do I call all those who have
only one choice: either to become evil
beasts, or evil beast-tamers. Amongst
such would I not build my tabernacle.

Unhappy do I also call those who have
ever to WAIT,--they are repugnant to my
taste--all the toll-gatherers and
traders, and kings, and other
landkeepers and shopkeepers.

Verily, I learned waiting also, and
thoroughly so,--but only waiting for
MYSELF. And above all did I learn
standing and walking and running and
leaping and climbing and dancing.

This however is my teaching: he who
wisheth one day to fly, must first learn
standing and walking and running and
climbing and dancing:--one doth not fly
into flying!

With rope-ladders learned I to reach
many a window, with nimble legs did I
climb high masts: to sit on high masts
of perception seemed to me no small
bliss;--

--To flicker like small flames on high
masts: a small light, certainly, but a
great comfort to cast-away sailors and
ship-wrecked ones!

By divers ways and wendings did I arrive
at my truth; not by one ladder did I
mount to the height where mine eye
roveth into my remoteness.

And unwillingly only did I ask my
way--that was always counter to my
taste! Rather did I question and test
the ways themselves.

A testing and a questioning hath been
all my travelling:--and verily, one must
also LEARN to answer such questioning!
That, however,--is my taste:

--Neither a good nor a bad taste, but MY
taste, of which I have no longer either
shame or secrecy.

“This--is now MY way,--where is yours?”
Thus did I answer those who asked me
“the way.” For THE way--it doth not
exist!

Thus spake Zarathustra.



LVI. OLD AND NEW TABLES.

1.

Here do I sit and wait, old broken
tables around me and also new
half-written tables. When cometh mine
hour?

--The hour of my descent, of my
down-going: for once more will I go unto
men.

For that hour do I now wait: for first
must the signs come unto me that it is
MINE hour--namely, the laughing lion
with the flock of doves.

Meanwhile do I talk to myself as one who
hath time. No one telleth me anything
new, so I tell myself mine own story.

2.

When I came unto men, then found I them
resting on an old infatuation: all of
them thought they had long known what
was good and bad for men.

An old wearisome business seemed to them
all discourse about virtue; and he who
wished to sleep well spake of “good” and
“bad” ere retiring to rest.

This somnolence did I disturb when I
taught that NO ONE YET KNOWETH what is
good and bad:--unless it be the creating
one!

--It is he, however, who createth man’s
goal, and giveth to the earth its
meaning and its future: he only
EFFECTETH it THAT aught is good or
bad.

And I bade them upset their old academic
chairs, and wherever that old
infatuation had sat; I bade them laugh
at their great moralists, their saints,
their poets, and their Saviours.

At their gloomy sages did I bid them
laugh, and whoever had sat admonishing
as a black scarecrow on the tree of
life.

On their great grave-highway did I seat
myself, and even beside the carrion and
vultures--and I laughed at all their
bygone and its mellow decaying glory.

Verily, like penitential preachers and
fools did I cry wrath and shame on all
their greatness and smallness. Oh, that
their best is so very small! Oh, that
their worst is so very small! Thus did I
laugh.

Thus did my wise longing, born in the
mountains, cry and laugh in me; a wild
wisdom, verily!--my great
pinion-rustling longing.

And oft did it carry me off and up and
away and in the midst of laughter; then
flew I quivering like an arrow with
sun-intoxicated rapture:

--Out into distant futures, which no
dream hath yet seen, into warmer souths
than ever sculptor conceived,--where
gods in their dancing are ashamed of all
clothes:

(That I may speak in parables and halt
and stammer like the poets: and verily I
am ashamed that I have still to be a
poet!)

Where all becoming seemed to me dancing
of Gods, and wantoning of Gods, and the
world unloosed and unbridled and fleeing
back to itself:--

--As an eternal self-fleeing and
re-seeking of one another of many Gods,
as the blessed self-contradicting,
recommuning, and refraternising with one
another of many Gods:--

Where all time seemed to me a blessed
mockery of moments, where necessity was
freedom itself, which played happily
with the goad of freedom:--

Where I also found again mine old devil
and arch-enemy, the spirit of gravity,
and all that it created: constraint,
law, necessity and consequence and
purpose and will and good and evil:--

For must there not be that which is
danced OVER, danced beyond? Must there
not, for the sake of the nimble, the
nimblest,--be moles and clumsy
dwarfs?--

3.

There was it also where I picked up from
the path the word “Superman,” and that
man is something that must be
surpassed.

--That man is a bridge and not a
goal--rejoicing over his noontides and
evenings, as advances to new rosy
dawns:

--The Zarathustra word of the great
noontide, and whatever else I have hung
up over men like purple
evening-afterglows.

Verily, also new stars did I make them
see, along with new nights; and over
cloud and day and night, did I spread
out laughter like a gay-coloured
canopy.

I taught them all MY poetisation and
aspiration: to compose and collect into
unity what is fragment in man, and
riddle and fearful chance;--

--As composer, riddle-reader, and
redeemer of chance, did I teach them to
create the future, and all that HATH
BEEN--to redeem by creating.

The past of man to redeem, and every “It
was” to transform, until the Will saith:
“But so did I will it! So shall I will
it--”

--This did I call redemption; this alone
taught I them to call redemption.--

Now do I await MY redemption--that I may
go unto them for the last time.

For once more will I go unto men:
AMONGST them will my sun set; in dying
will I give them my choicest gift!

From the sun did I learn this, when it
goeth down, the exuberant one: gold doth
it then pour into the sea, out of
inexhaustible riches,--

--So that the poorest fisherman roweth
even with GOLDEN oars! For this did I
once see, and did not tire of weeping in
beholding it.--

Like the sun will also Zarathustra go
down: now sitteth he here and waiteth,
old broken tables around him, and also
new tables--half-written.

4.

Behold, here is a new table; but where
are my brethren who will carry it with
me to the valley and into hearts of
flesh?--

Thus demandeth my great love to the
remotest ones: BE NOT CONSIDERATE OF THY
NEIGHBOUR! Man is something that must be
surpassed.

There are many divers ways and modes of
surpassing: see THOU thereto! But only a
buffoon thinketh: “man can also be
OVERLEAPT.”

Surpass thyself even in thy neighbour:
and a right which thou canst seize upon,
shalt thou not allow to be given thee!

What thou doest can no one do to thee
again. Lo, there is no requital.

He who cannot command himself shall
obey. And many a one CAN command
himself, but still sorely lacketh
self-obedience!

5.

Thus wisheth the type of noble souls:
they desire to have nothing
GRATUITOUSLY, least of all, life.

He who is of the populace wisheth to
live gratuitously; we others, however,
to whom life hath given itself--we are
ever considering WHAT we can best give
IN RETURN!

And verily, it is a noble dictum which
saith: “What life promiseth US, that
promise will WE keep--to life!”

One should not wish to enjoy where one
doth not contribute to the enjoyment.
And one should not WISH to enjoy!

For enjoyment and innocence are the most
bashful things. Neither like to be
sought for. One should HAVE them,--but
one should rather SEEK for guilt and
pain!--

6.

O my brethren, he who is a firstling is
ever sacrificed. Now, however, are we
firstlings!

We all bleed on secret sacrificial
altars, we all burn and broil in honour
of ancient idols.

Our best is still young: this exciteth
old palates. Our flesh is tender, our
skin is only lambs’ skin:--how could we
not excite old idol-priests!

IN OURSELVES dwelleth he still, the old
idol-priest, who broileth our best for
his banquet. Ah, my brethren, how could
firstlings fail to be sacrifices!

But so wisheth our type; and I love
those who do not wish to preserve
themselves, the down-going ones do I
love with mine entire love: for they go
beyond.--

7.

To be true--that CAN few be! And he who
can, will not! Least of all, however,
can the good be true.

Oh, those good ones! GOOD MEN NEVER
SPEAK THE TRUTH. For the spirit, thus to
be good, is a malady.

They yield, those good ones, they submit
themselves; their heart repeateth, their
soul obeyeth: HE, however, who obeyeth,
DOTH NOT LISTEN TO HIMSELF!

All that is called evil by the good,
must come together in order that one
truth may be born. O my brethren, are ye
also evil enough for THIS truth?

The daring venture, the prolonged
distrust, the cruel Nay, the tedium, the
cutting-into-the-quick--how seldom do
THESE come together! Out of such seed,
however--is truth produced!

BESIDE the bad conscience hath hitherto
grown all KNOWLEDGE! Break up, break up,
ye discerning ones, the old tables!

8.

When the water hath planks, when
gangways and railings o’erspan the
stream, verily, he is not believed who
then saith: “All is in flux.”

But even the simpletons contradict him.
“What?” say the simpletons, “all in
flux? Planks and railings are still OVER
the stream!

“OVER the stream all is stable, all the
values of things, the bridges and
bearings, all ‘good’ and ‘evil’: these
are all STABLE!”--

Cometh, however, the hard winter, the
stream-tamer, then learn even the
wittiest distrust, and verily, not only
the simpletons then say: “Should not
everything--STAND STILL?”

“Fundamentally standeth everything
still”--that is an appropriate winter
doctrine, good cheer for an unproductive
period, a great comfort for
winter-sleepers and fireside-loungers.

“Fundamentally standeth everything
still”--: but CONTRARY thereto,
preacheth the thawing wind!

The thawing wind, a bullock, which is no
ploughing bullock--a furious bullock, a
destroyer, which with angry horns
breaketh the ice! The ice
however--BREAKETH GANGWAYS!

O my brethren, is not everything AT
PRESENT IN FLUX? Have not all railings
and gangways fallen into the water? Who
would still HOLD ON to “good” and
“evil”?

“Woe to us! Hail to us! The thawing wind
bloweth!”--Thus preach, my brethren,
through all the streets!

9.

There is an old illusion--it is called
good and evil. Around soothsayers and
astrologers hath hitherto revolved the
orbit of this illusion.

Once did one BELIEVE in soothsayers and
astrologers; and THEREFORE did one
believe, “Everything is fate: thou
shalt, for thou must!”

Then again did one distrust all
soothsayers and astrologers; and
THEREFORE did one believe, “Everything
is freedom: thou canst, for thou
willest!”

O my brethren, concerning the stars and
the future there hath hitherto been only
illusion, and not knowledge; and
THEREFORE concerning good and evil there
hath hitherto been only illusion and not
knowledge!

10.

“Thou shalt not rob! Thou shalt not
slay!”--such precepts were once called
holy; before them did one bow the knee
and the head, and take off one’s
shoes.

But I ask you: Where have there ever
been better robbers and slayers in the
world than such holy precepts?

Is there not even in all life--robbing
and slaying? And for such precepts to be
called holy, was not TRUTH itself
thereby--slain?

--Or was it a sermon of death that
called holy what contradicted and
dissuaded from life?--O my brethren,
break up, break up for me the old
tables!

11.

It is my sympathy with all the past that
I see it is abandoned,--

--Abandoned to the favour, the spirit
and the madness of every generation that
cometh, and reinterpreteth all that hath
been as its bridge!

A great potentate might arise, an artful
prodigy, who with approval and
disapproval could strain and constrain
all the past, until it became for him a
bridge, a harbinger, a herald, and a
cock-crowing.

This however is the other danger, and
mine other sympathy:--he who is of the
populace, his thoughts go back to his
grandfather,--with his grandfather,
however, doth time cease.

Thus is all the past abandoned: for it
might some day happen for the populace
to become master, and drown all time in
shallow waters.

Therefore, O my brethren, a NEW NOBILITY
is needed, which shall be the adversary
of all populace and potentate rule, and
shall inscribe anew the word “noble” on
new tables.

For many noble ones are needed, and many
kinds of noble ones, FOR A NEW NOBILITY!
Or, as I once said in parable: “That is
just divinity, that there are Gods, but
no God!”

12.

O my brethren, I consecrate you and
point you to a new nobility: ye shall
become procreators and cultivators and
sowers of the future;--

--Verily, not to a nobility which ye
could purchase like traders with
traders’ gold; for little worth is all
that hath its price.

Let it not be your honour henceforth
whence ye come, but whither ye go! Your
Will and your feet which seek to surpass
you--let these be your new honour!

Verily, not that ye have served a
prince--of what account are princes
now!--nor that ye have become a bulwark
to that which standeth, that it may
stand more firmly.

Not that your family have become courtly
at courts, and that ye have
learned--gay-coloured, like the
flamingo--to stand long hours in shallow
pools:

(For ABILITY-to-stand is a merit in
courtiers; and all courtiers believe
that unto blessedness after death
pertaineth--PERMISSION-to-sit!)

Nor even that a Spirit called Holy, led
your forefathers into promised lands,
which I do not praise: for where the
worst of all trees grew--the cross,--in
that land there is nothing to
praise!--

--And verily, wherever this “Holy
Spirit” led its knights, always in such
campaigns did--goats and geese, and
wryheads and guyheads run FOREMOST!--

O my brethren, not backward shall your
nobility gaze, but OUTWARD! Exiles shall
ye be from all fatherlands and
forefather-lands!

Your CHILDREN’S LAND shall ye love: let
this love be your new nobility,--the
undiscovered in the remotest seas! For
it do I bid your sails search and
search!

Unto your children shall ye MAKE AMENDS
for being the children of your fathers:
all the past shall ye THUS redeem! This
new table do I place over you!

13.

“Why should one live? All is vain! To
live--that is to thrash straw; to
live--that is to burn oneself and yet
not get warm.”--

Such ancient babbling still passeth for
“wisdom”; because it is old, however,
and smelleth mustily, THEREFORE is it
the more honoured. Even mould
ennobleth.--

Children might thus speak: they SHUN the
fire because it hath burnt them! There
is much childishness in the old books of
wisdom.

And he who ever “thrasheth straw,” why
should he be allowed to rail at
thrashing! Such a fool one would have to
muzzle!

Such persons sit down to the table and
bring nothing with them, not even good
hunger:--and then do they rail: “All is
vain!”

But to eat and drink well, my brethren,
is verily no vain art! Break up, break
up for me the tables of the never-joyous
ones!

14.

“To the clean are all things
clean”--thus say the people. I, however,
say unto you: To the swine all things
become swinish!

Therefore preach the visionaries and
bowed-heads (whose hearts are also bowed
down): “The world itself is a filthy
monster.”

For these are all unclean spirits;
especially those, however, who have no
peace or rest, unless they see the world
FROM THE BACKSIDE--the backworldsmen!

TO THOSE do I say it to the face,
although it sound unpleasantly: the
world resembleth man, in that it hath a
backside,--SO MUCH is true!

There is in the world much filth: SO
MUCH is true! But the world itself is
not therefore a filthy monster!

There is wisdom in the fact that much in
the world smelleth badly: loathing
itself createth wings, and
fountain-divining powers!

In the best there is still something to
loathe; and the best is still something
that must be surpassed!--

O my brethren, there is much wisdom in
the fact that much filth is in the
world!--

15.

Such sayings did I hear pious
backworldsmen speak to their
consciences, and verily without
wickedness or guile,--although there is
nothing more guileful in the world, or
more wicked.

“Let the world be as it is! Raise not a
finger against it!”

“Let whoever will choke and stab and
skin and scrape the people: raise not a
finger against it! Thereby will they
learn to renounce the world.”

“And thine own reason--this shalt thou
thyself stifle and choke; for it is a
reason of this world,--thereby wilt thou
learn thyself to renounce the
world.”--

--Shatter, shatter, O my brethren, those
old tables of the pious! Tatter the
maxims of the world-maligners!--

16.

“He who learneth much unlearneth all
violent cravings”--that do people now
whisper to one another in all the dark
lanes.

“Wisdom wearieth, nothing is worth
while; thou shalt not crave!”--this new
table found I hanging even in the public
markets.

Break up for me, O my brethren, break up
also that NEW table! The
weary-o’-the-world put it up, and the
preachers of death and the jailer: for
lo, it is also a sermon for slavery:--

Because they learned badly and not the
best, and everything too early and
everything too fast; because they ATE
badly: from thence hath resulted their
ruined stomach;--

--For a ruined stomach, is their spirit:
IT persuadeth to death! For verily, my
brethren, the spirit IS a stomach!

Life is a well of delight, but to him in
whom the ruined stomach speaketh, the
father of affliction, all fountains are
poisoned.

To discern: that is DELIGHT to the
lion-willed! But he who hath become
weary, is himself merely “willed”; with
him play all the waves.

And such is always the nature of weak
men: they lose themselves on their way.
And at last asketh their weariness: “Why
did we ever go on the way? All is
indifferent!”

TO THEM soundeth it pleasant to have
preached in their ears: “Nothing is
worth while! Ye shall not will!” That,
however, is a sermon for slavery.

O my brethren, a fresh blustering wind
cometh Zarathustra unto all way-weary
ones; many noses will he yet make
sneeze!

Even through walls bloweth my free
breath, and in into prisons and
imprisoned spirits!

Willing emancipateth: for willing is
creating: so do I teach. And ONLY for
creating shall ye learn!

And also the learning shall ye LEARN
only from me, the learning well!--He who
hath ears let him hear!

17.

There standeth the boat--thither goeth
it over, perhaps into vast
nothingness--but who willeth to enter
into this “Perhaps”?

None of you want to enter into the
death-boat! How should ye then be
WORLD-WEARY ones!

World-weary ones! And have not even
withdrawn from the earth! Eager did I
ever find you for the earth, amorous
still of your own earth-weariness!

Not in vain doth your lip hang down:--a
small worldly wish still sitteth
thereon! And in your eye--floateth there
not a cloudlet of unforgotten earthly
bliss?

There are on the earth many good
inventions, some useful, some pleasant:
for their sake is the earth to be
loved.

And many such good inventions are there,
that they are like woman’s breasts:
useful at the same time, and pleasant.

Ye world-weary ones, however! Ye
earth-idlers! You, shall one beat with
stripes! With stripes shall one again
make you sprightly limbs.

For if ye be not invalids, or decrepit
creatures, of whom the earth is weary,
then are ye sly sloths, or dainty,
sneaking pleasure-cats. And if ye will
not again RUN gaily, then shall ye--pass
away!

To the incurable shall one not seek to
be a physician: thus teacheth
Zarathustra:--so shall ye pass away!

But more COURAGE is needed to make an
end than to make a new verse: that do
all physicians and poets know well.--

18.

O my brethren, there are tables which
weariness framed, and tables which
slothfulness framed, corrupt
slothfulness: although they speak
similarly, they want to be heard
differently.--

See this languishing one! Only a
span-breadth is he from his goal; but
from weariness hath he lain down
obstinately in the dust, this brave
one!

From weariness yawneth he at the path,
at the earth, at the goal, and at
himself: not a step further will he
go,--this brave one!

Now gloweth the sun upon him, and the
dogs lick at his sweat: but he lieth
there in his obstinacy and preferreth to
languish:--

--A span-breadth from his goal, to
languish! Verily, ye will have to drag
him into his heaven by the hair of his
head--this hero!

Better still that ye let him lie where
he hath lain down, that sleep may come
unto him, the comforter, with cooling
patter-rain.

Let him lie, until of his own accord he
awakeneth,--until of his own accord he
repudiateth all weariness, and what
weariness hath taught through him!

Only, my brethren, see that ye scare the
dogs away from him, the idle skulkers,
and all the swarming vermin:--

--All the swarming vermin of the
“cultured,” that--feast on the sweat of
every hero!--

19.

I form circles around me and holy
boundaries; ever fewer ascend with me
ever higher mountains: I build a
mountain-range out of ever holier
mountains.--

But wherever ye would ascend with me, O
my brethren, take care lest a PARASITE
ascend with you!

A parasite: that is a reptile, a
creeping, cringing reptile, that trieth
to fatten on your infirm and sore
places.

And THIS is its art: it divineth where
ascending souls are weary, in your
trouble and dejection, in your sensitive
modesty, doth it build its loathsome
nest.

Where the strong are weak, where the
noble are all-too-gentle--there buildeth
it its loathsome nest; the parasite
liveth where the great have small
sore-places.

What is the highest of all species of
being, and what is the lowest? The
parasite is the lowest species; he,
however, who is of the highest species
feedeth most parasites.

For the soul which hath the longest
ladder, and can go deepest down: how
could there fail to be most parasites
upon it?--

--The most comprehensive soul, which can
run and stray and rove furthest in
itself; the most necessary soul, which
out of joy flingeth itself into
chance:--

--The soul in Being, which plungeth into
Becoming; the possessing soul, which
SEEKETH to attain desire and
longing:--

--The soul fleeing from itself, which
overtaketh itself in the widest circuit;
the wisest soul, unto which folly
speaketh most sweetly:--

--The soul most self-loving, in which
all things have their current and
counter-current, their ebb and their
flow:--oh, how could THE LOFTIEST SOUL
fail to have the worst parasites?

20.

O my brethren, am I then cruel? But I
say: What falleth, that shall one also
push!

Everything of to-day--it falleth, it
decayeth; who would preserve it! But
I--I wish also to push it!

Know ye the delight which rolleth stones
into precipitous depths?--Those men of
to-day, see just how they roll into my
depths!

A prelude am I to better players, O my
brethren! An example! DO according to
mine example!

And him whom ye do not teach to fly,
teach I pray you--TO FALL FASTER!--

21.

I love the brave: but it is not enough
to be a swordsman,--one must also know
WHEREON to use swordsmanship!

And often is it greater bravery to keep
quiet and pass by, that THEREBY one may
reserve oneself for a worthier foe!

Ye shall only have foes to be hated; but
not foes to be despised: ye must be
proud of your foes. Thus have I already
taught.

For the worthier foe, O my brethren,
shall ye reserve yourselves: therefore
must ye pass by many a one,--

--Especially many of the rabble, who din
your ears with noise about people and
peoples.

Keep your eye clear of their For and
Against! There is there much right, much
wrong: he who looketh on becometh
wroth.

Therein viewing, therein hewing--they
are the same thing: therefore depart
into the forests and lay your sword to
sleep!

Go YOUR ways! and let the people and
peoples go theirs!--gloomy ways, verily,
on which not a single hope glinteth any
more!

Let there the trader rule, where all
that still glittereth is--traders’ gold.
It is the time of kings no longer: that
which now calleth itself the people is
unworthy of kings.

See how these peoples themselves now do
just like the traders: they pick up the
smallest advantage out of all kinds of
rubbish!

They lay lures for one another, they
lure things out of one another,--that
they call “good neighbourliness.” O
blessed remote period when a people said
to itself: “I will be--MASTER over
peoples!”

For, my brethren, the best shall rule,
the best also WILLETH to rule! And where
the teaching is different, there--the
best is LACKING.

22.

If THEY had--bread for nothing, alas!
for what would THEY cry! Their
maintainment--that is their true
entertainment; and they shall have it
hard!

Beasts of prey, are they: in their
“working”--there is even plundering, in
their “earning”--there is even
overreaching! Therefore shall they have
it hard!

Better beasts of prey shall they thus
become, subtler, cleverer, MORE
MAN-LIKE: for man is the best beast of
prey.

All the animals hath man already robbed
of their virtues: that is why of all
animals it hath been hardest for man.

Only the birds are still beyond him. And
if man should yet learn to fly, alas! TO
WHAT HEIGHT--would his rapacity fly!

23.

Thus would I have man and woman: fit for
war, the one; fit for maternity, the
other; both, however, fit for dancing
with head and legs.

And lost be the day to us in which a
measure hath not been danced. And false
be every truth which hath not had
laughter along with it!

24.

Your marriage-arranging: see that it be
not a bad ARRANGING! Ye have arranged
too hastily: so there FOLLOWETH
therefrom--marriage-breaking!

And better marriage-breaking than
marriage-bending, marriage-lying!--Thus
spake a woman unto me: “Indeed, I broke
the marriage, but first did the marriage
break--me!

The badly paired found I ever the most
revengeful: they make every one suffer
for it that they no longer run singly.

On that account want I the honest ones
to say to one another: “We love each
other: let us SEE TO IT that we maintain
our love! Or shall our pledging be
blundering?”

--“Give us a set term and a small
marriage, that we may see if we are fit
for the great marriage! It is a great
matter always to be twain.”

Thus do I counsel all honest ones; and
what would be my love to the Superman,
and to all that is to come, if I should
counsel and speak otherwise!

Not only to propagate yourselves onwards
but UPWARDS--thereto, O my brethren, may
the garden of marriage help you!

25.

He who hath grown wise concerning old
origins, lo, he will at last seek after
the fountains of the future and new
origins.--

O my brethren, not long will it be until
NEW PEOPLES shall arise and new
fountains shall rush down into new
depths.

For the earthquake--it choketh up many
wells, it causeth much languishing: but
it bringeth also to light inner powers
and secrets.

The earthquake discloseth new fountains.
In the earthquake of old peoples new
fountains burst forth.

And whoever calleth out: “Lo, here is a
well for many thirsty ones, one heart
for many longing ones, one will for many
instruments”:--around him collecteth a
PEOPLE, that is to say, many attempting
ones.

Who can command, who must obey--THAT IS
THERE ATTEMPTED! Ah, with what long
seeking and solving and failing and
learning and re-attempting!

Human society: it is an attempt--so I
teach--a long seeking: it seeketh
however the ruler!--

--An attempt, my brethren! And NO
“contract”! Destroy, I pray you, destroy
that word of the soft-hearted and
half-and-half!

26.

O my brethren! With whom lieth the
greatest danger to the whole human
future? Is it not with the good and
just?--

--As those who say and feel in their
hearts: “We already know what is good
and just, we possess it also; woe to
those who still seek thereafter!

And whatever harm the wicked may do, the
harm of the good is the harmfulest
harm!

And whatever harm the world-maligners
may do, the harm of the good is the
harmfulest harm!

O my brethren, into the hearts of the
good and just looked some one once on a
time, who said: “They are the
Pharisees.” But people did not
understand him.

The good and just themselves were not
free to understand him; their spirit was
imprisoned in their good conscience. The
stupidity of the good is unfathomably
wise.

It is the truth, however, that the good
MUST be Pharisees--they have no
choice!

The good MUST crucify him who deviseth
his own virtue! That IS the truth!

The second one, however, who discovered
their country--the country, heart and
soil of the good and just,--it was he
who asked: “Whom do they hate most?”

The CREATOR, hate they most, him who
breaketh the tables and old values, the
breaker,--him they call the
law-breaker.

For the good--they CANNOT create; they
are always the beginning of the end:--

--They crucify him who writeth new
values on new tables, they sacrifice
UNTO THEMSELVES the future--they crucify
the whole human future!

The good--they have always been the
beginning of the end.--

27.

O my brethren, have ye also understood
this word? And what I once said of the
“last man”?--

With whom lieth the greatest danger to
the whole human future? Is it not with
the good and just?

BREAK UP, BREAK UP, I PRAY YOU, THE GOOD
AND JUST!--O my brethren, have ye
understood also this word?

28.

Ye flee from me? Ye are frightened? Ye
tremble at this word?

O my brethren, when I enjoined you to
break up the good, and the tables of the
good, then only did I embark man on his
high seas.

And now only cometh unto him the great
terror, the great outlook, the great
sickness, the great nausea, the great
sea-sickness.

False shores and false securities did
the good teach you; in the lies of the
good were ye born and bred. Everything
hath been radically contorted and
distorted by the good.

But he who discovered the country of
“man,” discovered also the country of
“man’s future.” Now shall ye be sailors
for me, brave, patient!

Keep yourselves up betimes, my brethren,
learn to keep yourselves up! The sea
stormeth: many seek to raise themselves
again by you.

The sea stormeth: all is in the sea.
Well! Cheer up! Ye old seaman-hearts!

What of fatherland! THITHER striveth our
helm where our CHILDREN’S LAND is!
Thitherwards, stormier than the sea,
stormeth our great longing!--

29.

“Why so hard!”--said to the diamond one
day the charcoal; “are we then not near
relatives?”--

Why so soft? O my brethren; thus do _I_
ask you: are ye then not--my brethren?

Why so soft, so submissive and yielding?
Why is there so much negation and
abnegation in your hearts? Why is there
so little fate in your looks?

And if ye will not be fates and
inexorable ones, how can ye one day--
conquer with me?

And if your hardness will not glance and
cut and chip to pieces, how can ye one
day--create with me?

For the creators are hard. And
blessedness must it seem to you to press
your hand upon millenniums as upon
wax,--

--Blessedness to write upon the will of
millenniums as upon brass,--harder than
brass, nobler than brass. Entirely hard
is only the noblest.

This new table, O my brethren, put I up
over you: BECOME HARD!--

30.

O thou, my Will! Thou change of every
need, MY needfulness! Preserve me from
all small victories!

Thou fatedness of my soul, which I call
fate! Thou In-me! Over-me! Preserve and
spare me for one great fate!

And thy last greatness, my Will, spare
it for thy last--that thou mayest be
inexorable IN thy victory! Ah, who hath
not succumbed to his victory!

Ah, whose eye hath not bedimmed in this
intoxicated twilight! Ah, whose foot
hath not faltered and forgotten in
victory--how to stand!--

--That I may one day be ready and ripe
in the great noontide: ready and ripe
like the glowing ore, the
lightning-bearing cloud, and the
swelling milk-udder:--

--Ready for myself and for my most
hidden Will: a bow eager for its arrow,
an arrow eager for its star:--

--A star, ready and ripe in its
noontide, glowing, pierced, blessed, by
annihilating sun-arrows:--

--A sun itself, and an inexorable
sun-will, ready for annihilation in
victory!

O Will, thou change of every need, MY
needfulness! Spare me for one great
victory!---

Thus spake Zarathustra.



LVII. THE CONVALESCENT.

1.

One morning, not long after his return
to his cave, Zarathustra sprang up from
his couch like a madman, crying with a
frightful voice, and acting as if some
one still lay on the couch who did not
wish to rise. Zarathustra’s voice also
resounded in such a manner that his
animals came to him frightened, and out
of all the neighbouring caves and
lurking-places all the creatures slipped
away--flying, fluttering, creeping or
leaping, according to their variety of
foot or wing. Zarathustra, however,
spake these words:

Up, abysmal thought out of my depth! I
am thy cock and morning dawn, thou
overslept reptile: Up! Up! My voice
shall soon crow thee awake!

Unbind the fetters of thine ears:
listen! For I wish to hear thee! Up! Up!
There is thunder enough to make the very
graves listen!

And rub the sleep and all the dimness
and blindness out of thine eyes! Hear me
also with thine eyes: my voice is a
medicine even for those born blind.

And once thou art awake, then shalt thou
ever remain awake. It is not MY custom
to awake great-grandmothers out of their
sleep that I may bid them--sleep on!

Thou stirrest, stretchest thyself,
wheezest? Up! Up! Not wheeze, shalt
thou,--but speak unto me! Zarathustra
calleth thee, Zarathustra the godless!

I, Zarathustra, the advocate of living,
the advocate of suffering, the advocate
of the circuit--thee do I call, my most
abysmal thought!

Joy to me! Thou comest,--I hear thee!
Mine abyss SPEAKETH, my lowest depth
have I turned over into the light!

Joy to me! Come hither! Give me thy
hand--ha! let be! aha!--Disgust,
disgust, disgust--alas to me!

2.

Hardly, however, had Zarathustra spoken
these words, when he fell down as one
dead, and remained long as one dead.
When however he again came to himself,
then was he pale and trembling, and
remained lying; and for long he would
neither eat nor drink. This condition
continued for seven days; his animals,
however, did not leave him day nor
night, except that the eagle flew forth
to fetch food. And what it fetched and
foraged, it laid on Zarathustra’s couch:
so that Zarathustra at last lay among
yellow and red berries, grapes, rosy
apples, sweet-smelling herbage, and
pine-cones. At his feet, however, two
lambs were stretched, which the eagle
had with difficulty carried off from
their shepherds.

At last, after seven days, Zarathustra
raised himself upon his couch, took a
rosy apple in his hand, smelt it and
found its smell pleasant. Then did his
animals think the time had come to speak
unto him.

“O Zarathustra,” said they, “now hast
thou lain thus for seven days with heavy
eyes: wilt thou not set thyself again
upon thy feet?

Step out of thy cave: the world waiteth
for thee as a garden. The wind playeth
with heavy fragrance which seeketh for
thee; and all brooks would like to run
after thee.

All things long for thee, since thou
hast remained alone for seven days--step
forth out of thy cave! All things want
to be thy physicians!

Did perhaps a new knowledge come to
thee, a bitter, grievous knowledge? Like
leavened dough layest thou, thy soul
arose and swelled beyond all its
bounds.--”

--O mine animals, answered Zarathustra,
talk on thus and let me listen! It
refresheth me so to hear your talk:
where there is talk, there is the world
as a garden unto me.

How charming it is that there are words
and tones; are not words and tones
rainbows and seeming bridges ‘twixt the
eternally separated?

To each soul belongeth another world; to
each soul is every other soul a
back-world.

Among the most alike doth semblance
deceive most delightfully: for the
smallest gap is most difficult to bridge
over.

For me--how could there be an
outside-of-me? There is no outside! But
this we forget on hearing tones; how
delightful it is that we forget!

Have not names and tones been given unto
things that man may refresh himself with
them? It is a beautiful folly, speaking;
therewith danceth man over everything.

How lovely is all speech and all
falsehoods of tones! With tones danceth
our love on variegated rainbows.--

--“O Zarathustra,” said then his
animals, “to those who think like us,
things all dance themselves: they come
and hold out the hand and laugh and
flee--and return.

Everything goeth, everything returneth;
eternally rolleth the wheel of
existence. Everything dieth, everything
blossometh forth again; eternally
runneth on the year of existence.

Everything breaketh, everything is
integrated anew; eternally buildeth
itself the same house of existence. All
things separate, all things again greet
one another; eternally true to itself
remaineth the ring of existence.

Every moment beginneth existence, around
every ‘Here’ rolleth the ball ‘There.’
The middle is everywhere. Crooked is the
path of eternity.”--

--O ye wags and barrel-organs! answered
Zarathustra, and smiled once more, how
well do ye know what had to be fulfilled
in seven days:--

--And how that monster crept into my
throat and choked me! But I bit off its
head and spat it away from me.

And ye--ye have made a lyre-lay out of
it? Now, however, do I lie here, still
exhausted with that biting and
spitting-away, still sick with mine own
salvation.

AND YE LOOKED ON AT IT ALL? O mine
animals, are ye also cruel? Did ye like
to look at my great pain as men do? For
man is the cruellest animal.

At tragedies, bull-fights, and
crucifixions hath he hitherto been
happiest on earth; and when he invented
his hell, behold, that was his heaven on
earth.

When the great man crieth--: immediately
runneth the little man thither, and his
tongue hangeth out of his mouth for very
lusting. He, however, calleth it his
“pity.”

The little man, especially the poet--how
passionately doth he accuse life in
words! Hearken to him, but do not fail
to hear the delight which is in all
accusation!

Such accusers of life--them life
overcometh with a glance of the eye.
“Thou lovest me?” saith the insolent
one; “wait a little, as yet have I no
time for thee.”

Towards himself man is the cruellest
animal; and in all who call themselves
“sinners” and “bearers of the cross” and
“penitents,” do not overlook the
voluptuousness in their plaints and
accusations!

And I myself--do I thereby want to be
man’s accuser? Ah, mine animals, this
only have I learned hitherto, that for
man his baddest is necessary for his
best,--

--That all that is baddest is the best
POWER, and the hardest stone for the
highest creator; and that man must
become better AND badder:--

Not to THIS torture-stake was I tied,
that I know man is bad,--but I cried, as
no one hath yet cried:

“Ah, that his baddest is so very small!
Ah, that his best is so very small!”

The great disgust at man--IT strangled
me and had crept into my throat: and
what the soothsayer had presaged: “All
is alike, nothing is worth while,
knowledge strangleth.”

A long twilight limped on before me, a
fatally weary, fatally intoxicated
sadness, which spake with yawning
mouth.

“Eternally he returneth, the man of whom
thou art weary, the small man”--so
yawned my sadness, and dragged its foot
and could not go to sleep.

A cavern, became the human earth to me;
its breast caved in; everything living
became to me human dust and bones and
mouldering past.

My sighing sat on all human graves, and
could no longer arise: my sighing and
questioning croaked and choked, and
gnawed and nagged day and night:

--“Ah, man returneth eternally! The
small man returneth eternally!”

Naked had I once seen both of them, the
greatest man and the smallest man: all
too like one another--all too human,
even the greatest man!

All too small, even the greatest
man!--that was my disgust at man! And
the eternal return also of the smallest
man!--that was my disgust at all
existence!

Ah, Disgust! Disgust! Disgust!--Thus
spake Zarathustra, and sighed and
shuddered; for he remembered his
sickness. Then did his animals prevent
him from speaking further.

“Do not speak further, thou
convalescent!”--so answered his animals,
“but go out where the world waiteth for
thee like a garden.

Go out unto the roses, the bees, and the
flocks of doves! Especially, however,
unto the singing-birds, to learn SINGING
from them!

For singing is for the convalescent; the
sound ones may talk. And when the sound
also want songs, then want they other
songs than the convalescent.”

--“O ye wags and barrel-organs, do be
silent!” answered Zarathustra, and
smiled at his animals. “How well ye know
what consolation I devised for myself in
seven days!

That I have to sing once more--THAT
consolation did I devise for myself, and
THIS convalescence: would ye also make
another lyre-lay thereof?”

--“Do not talk further,” answered his
animals once more; “rather, thou
convalescent, prepare for thyself first
a lyre, a new lyre!

For behold, O Zarathustra! For thy new
lays there are needed new lyres.

Sing and bubble over, O Zarathustra,
heal thy soul with new lays: that thou
mayest bear thy great fate, which hath
not yet been any one’s fate!

For thine animals know it well, O
Zarathustra, who thou art and must
become: behold, THOU ART THE TEACHER OF
THE ETERNAL RETURN,--that is now THY
fate!

That thou must be the first to teach
this teaching--how could this great fate
not be thy greatest danger and
infirmity!

Behold, we know what thou teachest: that
all things eternally return, and
ourselves with them, and that we have
already existed times without number,
and all things with us.

Thou teachest that there is a great year
of Becoming, a prodigy of a great year;
it must, like a sand-glass, ever turn up
anew, that it may anew run down and run
out:--

--So that all those years are like one
another in the greatest and also in the
smallest, so that we ourselves, in every
great year, are like ourselves in the
greatest and also in the smallest.

And if thou wouldst now die, O
Zarathustra, behold, we know also how
thou wouldst then speak to thyself:--but
thine animals beseech thee not to die
yet!

Thou wouldst speak, and without
trembling, buoyant rather with bliss,
for a great weight and worry would be
taken from thee, thou patientest
one!--

‘Now do I die and disappear,’ wouldst
thou say, ‘and in a moment I am nothing.
Souls are as mortal as bodies.

But the plexus of causes returneth in
which I am intertwined,--it will again
create me! I myself pertain to the
causes of the eternal return.

I come again with this sun, with this
earth, with this eagle, with this
serpent--NOT to a new life, or a better
life, or a similar life:

--I come again eternally to this
identical and selfsame life, in its
greatest and its smallest, to teach
again the eternal return of all
things,--

--To speak again the word of the great
noontide of earth and man, to announce
again to man the Superman.

I have spoken my word. I break down by
my word: so willeth mine eternal
fate--as announcer do I succumb!

The hour hath now come for the down-goer
to bless himself. Thus--ENDETH
Zarathustra’s down-going.’”--

When the animals had spoken these words
they were silent and waited, so that
Zarathustra might say something to them:
but Zarathustra did not hear that they
were silent. On the contrary, he lay
quietly with closed eyes like a person
sleeping, although he did not sleep; for
he communed just then with his soul. The
serpent, however, and the eagle, when
they found him silent in such wise,
respected the great stillness around
him, and prudently retired.



LVIII. THE GREAT LONGING.

O my soul, I have taught thee to say
“to-day” as “once on a time” and
“formerly,” and to dance thy measure
over every Here and There and Yonder.

O my soul, I delivered thee from all
by-places, I brushed down from thee dust
and spiders and twilight.

O my soul, I washed the petty shame and
the by-place virtue from thee, and
persuaded thee to stand naked before the
eyes of the sun.

With the storm that is called “spirit”
did I blow over thy surging sea; all
clouds did I blow away from it; I
strangled even the strangler called
“sin.”

O my soul, I gave thee the right to say
Nay like the storm, and to say Yea as
the open heaven saith Yea: calm as the
light remainest thou, and now walkest
through denying storms.

O my soul, I restored to thee liberty
over the created and the uncreated; and
who knoweth, as thou knowest, the
voluptuousness of the future?

O my soul, I taught thee the contempt
which doth not come like worm-eating,
the great, the loving contempt, which
loveth most where it contemneth most.

O my soul, I taught thee so to persuade
that thou persuadest even the grounds
themselves to thee: like the sun, which
persuadeth even the sea to its height.

O my soul, I have taken from thee all
obeying and knee-bending and
homage-paying; I have myself given thee
the names, “Change of need” and
“Fate.”

O my soul, I have given thee new names
and gay-coloured playthings, I have
called thee “Fate” and “the Circuit of
circuits” and “the Navel-string of time”
and “the Azure bell.”

O my soul, to thy domain gave I all
wisdom to drink, all new wines, and also
all immemorially old strong wines of
wisdom.

O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee,
and every night and every silence and
every longing:--then grewest thou up for
me as a vine.

O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou
now stand forth, a vine with swelling
udders and full clusters of brown golden
grapes:--

--Filled and weighted by thy happiness,
waiting from superabundance, and yet
ashamed of thy waiting.

O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which
could be more loving and more
comprehensive and more extensive! Where
could future and past be closer together
than with thee?

O my soul, I have given thee everything,
and all my hands have become empty by
thee:--and now! Now sayest thou to me,
smiling and full of melancholy: “Which
of us oweth thanks?--

--Doth the giver not owe thanks because
the receiver received? Is bestowing not
a necessity? Is receiving
not--pitying?”--

O my soul, I understand the smiling of
thy melancholy: thine over-abundance
itself now stretcheth out longing
hands!

Thy fulness looketh forth over raging
seas, and seeketh and waiteth: the
longing of over-fulness looketh forth
from the smiling heaven of thine eyes!

And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy
smiling and not melt into tears? The
angels themselves melt into tears
through the over-graciousness of thy
smiling.

Thy graciousness and over-graciousness,
is it which will not complain and weep:
and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling
for tears, and thy trembling mouth for
sobs.

“Is not all weeping complaining? And all
complaining, accusing?” Thus speakest
thou to thyself; and therefore, O my
soul, wilt thou rather smile than pour
forth thy grief--

--Than in gushing tears pour forth all
thy grief concerning thy fulness, and
concerning the craving of the vine for
the vintager and vintage-knife!

But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not
weep forth thy purple melancholy, then
wilt thou have to SING, O my
soul!--Behold, I smile myself, who
foretell thee this:

--Thou wilt have to sing with passionate
song, until all seas turn calm to
hearken unto thy longing,--

--Until over calm longing seas the bark
glideth, the golden marvel, around the
gold of which all good, bad, and
marvellous things frisk:--

--Also many large and small animals, and
everything that hath light marvellous
feet, so that it can run on violet-blue
paths,--

--Towards the golden marvel, the
spontaneous bark, and its master: he,
however, is the vintager who waiteth
with the diamond vintage-knife,--

--Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the
nameless one--for whom future songs only
will find names! And verily, already
hath thy breath the fragrance of future
songs,--

--Already glowest thou and dreamest,
already drinkest thou thirstily at all
deep echoing wells of consolation,
already reposeth thy melancholy in the
bliss of future songs!--

O my soul, now have I given thee all,
and even my last possession, and all my
hands have become empty by thee:--THAT I
BADE THEE SING, behold, that was my last
thing to give!

That I bade thee sing,--say now, say:
WHICH of us now--oweth thanks?-- Better
still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my
soul! And let me thank thee!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.



LIX. THE SECOND DANCE-SONG.

1.

“Into thine eyes gazed I lately, O Life:
gold saw I gleam in thy night-eyes,--my
heart stood still with delight:

--A golden bark saw I gleam on darkened
waters, a sinking, drinking, reblinking,
golden swing-bark!

At my dance-frantic foot, dost thou cast
a glance, a laughing, questioning,
melting, thrown glance:

Twice only movedst thou thy rattle with
thy little hands--then did my feet swing
with dance-fury.--

My heels reared aloft, my toes they
hearkened,--thee they would know: hath
not the dancer his ear--in his toe!

Unto thee did I spring: then fledst thou
back from my bound; and towards me waved
thy fleeing, flying tresses round!

Away from thee did I spring, and from
thy snaky tresses: then stoodst thou
there half-turned, and in thine eye
caresses.

With crooked glances--dost thou teach me
crooked courses; on crooked courses
learn my feet--crafty fancies!

I fear thee near, I love thee far; thy
flight allureth me, thy seeking secureth
me:--I suffer, but for thee, what would
I not gladly bear!

For thee, whose coldness inflameth,
whose hatred misleadeth, whose flight
enchaineth, whose mockery--pleadeth:

--Who would not hate thee, thou great
bindress, inwindress, temptress,
seekress, findress! Who would not love
thee, thou innocent, impatient,
wind-swift, child-eyed sinner!

Whither pullest thou me now, thou
paragon and tomboy? And now foolest thou
me fleeing; thou sweet romp dost
annoy!

I dance after thee, I follow even faint
traces lonely. Where art thou? Give me
thy hand! Or thy finger only!

Here are caves and thickets: we shall go
astray!--Halt! Stand still! Seest thou
not owls and bats in fluttering fray?

Thou bat! Thou owl! Thou wouldst play me
foul? Where are we? From the dogs hast
thou learned thus to bark and howl.

Thou gnashest on me sweetly with little
white teeth; thine evil eyes shoot out
upon me, thy curly little mane from
underneath!

This is a dance over stock and stone: I
am the hunter,--wilt thou be my hound,
or my chamois anon?

Now beside me! And quickly, wickedly
springing! Now up! And over!--Alas! I
have fallen myself overswinging!

Oh, see me lying, thou arrogant one, and
imploring grace! Gladly would I walk
with thee--in some lovelier place!

--In the paths of love, through bushes
variegated, quiet, trim! Or there along
the lake, where gold-fishes dance and
swim!

Thou art now a-weary? There above are
sheep and sun-set stripes: is it not
sweet to sleep--the shepherd pipes?

Thou art so very weary? I carry thee
thither; let just thine arm sink! And
art thou thirsty--I should have
something; but thy mouth would not like
it to drink!--

--Oh, that cursed, nimble, supple
serpent and lurking-witch! Where art
thou gone? But in my face do I feel
through thy hand, two spots and red
blotches itch!

I am verily weary of it, ever thy
sheepish shepherd to be. Thou witch, if
I have hitherto sung unto thee, now
shalt THOU--cry unto me!

To the rhythm of my whip shalt thou
dance and cry! I forget not my
whip?--Not I!”--

2.

Then did Life answer me thus, and kept
thereby her fine ears closed:

“O Zarathustra! Crack not so terribly
with thy whip! Thou knowest surely that
noise killeth thought,--and just now
there came to me such delicate
thoughts.

We are both of us genuine ne’er-do-wells
and ne’er-do-ills. Beyond good and evil
found we our island and our green
meadow--we two alone! Therefore must we
be friendly to each other!

And even should we not love each other
from the bottom of our hearts,--must we
then have a grudge against each other if
we do not love each other perfectly?

And that I am friendly to thee, and
often too friendly, that knowest thou:
and the reason is that I am envious of
thy Wisdom. Ah, this mad old fool,
Wisdom!

If thy Wisdom should one day run away
from thee, ah! then would also my love
run away from thee quickly.”--

Thereupon did Life look thoughtfully
behind and around, and said softly: “O
Zarathustra, thou art not faithful
enough to me!

Thou lovest me not nearly so much as
thou sayest; I know thou thinkest of
soon leaving me.

There is an old heavy, heavy,
booming-clock: it boometh by night up to
thy cave:--

--When thou hearest this clock strike
the hours at midnight, then thinkest
thou between one and twelve thereon--

--Thou thinkest thereon, O Zarathustra,
I know it--of soon leaving me!”--

“Yea,” answered I, hesitatingly, “but
thou knowest it also”--And I said
something into her ear, in amongst her
confused, yellow, foolish tresses.

“Thou KNOWEST that, O Zarathustra? That
knoweth no one--”

And we gazed at each other, and looked
at the green meadow o’er which the cool
evening was just passing, and we wept
together.--Then, however, was Life
dearer unto me than all my Wisdom had
ever been.--

Thus spake Zarathustra.

3.

One!

O man! Take heed!

Two!

What saith deep midnight’s voice
indeed?

Three!

“I slept my sleep--

Four!

“From deepest dream I’ve woke and
plead:--

Five!

“The world is deep,

Six!

“And deeper than the day could read.

Seven!

“Deep is its woe--

Eight!

“Joy--deeper still than grief can be:

Nine!

“Woe saith: Hence! Go!

Ten!

“But joys all want eternity--

Eleven!

“Want deep profound eternity!”

Twelve!



LX. THE SEVEN SEALS.

(OR THE YEA AND AMEN LAY.)

1.

If I be a diviner and full of the
divining spirit which wandereth on high
mountain-ridges, ‘twixt two seas,--

Wandereth ‘twixt the past and the future
as a heavy cloud--hostile to sultry
plains, and to all that is weary and can
neither die nor live:

Ready for lightning in its dark bosom,
and for the redeeming flash of light,
charged with lightnings which say Yea!
which laugh Yea! ready for divining
flashes of lightning:--

--Blessed, however, is he who is thus
charged! And verily, long must he hang
like a heavy tempest on the mountain,
who shall one day kindle the light of
the future!--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

2.

If ever my wrath hath burst graves,
shifted landmarks, or rolled old
shattered tables into precipitous
depths:

If ever my scorn hath scattered
mouldered words to the winds, and if I
have come like a besom to cross-spiders,
and as a cleansing wind to old
charnel-houses:

If ever I have sat rejoicing where old
Gods lie buried, world-blessing,
world-loving, beside the monuments of
old world-maligners:--

--For even churches and Gods’-graves do
I love, if only heaven looketh through
their ruined roofs with pure eyes;
gladly do I sit like grass and red
poppies on ruined churches--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

3.

If ever a breath hath come to me of the
creative breath, and of the heavenly
necessity which compelleth even chances
to dance star-dances:

If ever I have laughed with the laughter
of the creative lightning, to which the
long thunder of the deed followeth,
grumblingly, but obediently:

If ever I have played dice with the Gods
at the divine table of the earth, so
that the earth quaked and ruptured, and
snorted forth fire-streams:--

--For a divine table is the earth, and
trembling with new creative dictums and
dice-casts of the Gods:

Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

4.

If ever I have drunk a full draught of
the foaming spice- and confection-bowl
in which all things are well mixed:

If ever my hand hath mingled the
furthest with the nearest, fire with
spirit, joy with sorrow, and the
harshest with the kindest:

If I myself am a grain of the saving
salt which maketh everything in the
confection-bowl mix well:--

--For there is a salt which uniteth good
with evil; and even the evilest is
worthy, as spicing and as final
over-foaming:--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

5.

If I be fond of the sea, and all that is
sealike, and fondest of it when it
angrily contradicteth me:

If the exploring delight be in me, which
impelleth sails to the undiscovered, if
the seafarer’s delight be in my
delight:

If ever my rejoicing hath called out:
“The shore hath vanished,--now hath
fallen from me the last chain--

The boundless roareth around me, far
away sparkle for me space and
time,--well! cheer up! old heart!”--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

6.

If my virtue be a dancer’s virtue, and
if I have often sprung with both feet
into golden-emerald rapture:

If my wickedness be a laughing
wickedness, at home among rose-banks and
hedges of lilies:

--For in laughter is all evil present,
but it is sanctified and absolved by its
own bliss:--

And if it be my Alpha and Omega that
everything heavy shall become light,
every body a dancer, and every spirit a
bird: and verily, that is my Alpha and
Omega!--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

7.

If ever I have spread out a tranquil
heaven above me, and have flown into
mine own heaven with mine own pinions:

If I have swum playfully in profound
luminous distances, and if my freedom’s
avian wisdom hath come to me:--

--Thus however speaketh avian
wisdom:--“Lo, there is no above and no
below! Throw thyself about,--outward,
backward, thou light one! Sing! speak no
more!

--Are not all words made for the heavy?
Do not all words lie to the light ones?
Sing! speak no more!”--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for
Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom
I should like to have children, unless
it be this woman whom I love: for I love
thee, O Eternity!
thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

 