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THE COMPLETE WORKS
OF
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
The First Complete and Authorised English Translation
EDITED BY
Dr OSCAR LEVY
VOLUME ELEVEN
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
B
3312
Es
Lfe
VII
First Editioriy Tvpo Thousand CopieSy 1909
Second Edition, One Thousand Five Hundred Copies, 1911
0/ the Third Edition of
Tfto Thousand Copies
this is
y.. 1214
FRlEDRiCH NIETZSCHE
THUS SPAKE- -^
ZARATHUSTRA
c// BOOK^ FOR ^LL ^^HJ)
TRANSLATED BV
THOMAS COMMON
NEW YORK.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1914
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
X 6 q if 0^
Printeti at Thh Daki«n Press, Edinburgh
CONTENTS.
Introduction by Mrs Forster-Nietzsche
PAGB
ix
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA.
FIRST PART.
Zarathustra's Prologue - - - - 3
Zarathustra's Discourses- ... 23
I. — The Three Metamorphoses - - 25
II. — The Academic Chairs of Virtue - • 28
III.— Backworldsmen - - .31
IV.— The Despisers of the Body - - 35
V. — Joys and Passions - - • - 38
VI.— The Pale Criminal - - . 40
VII.— Reading and Writing - • - 43
VIII.— The Tree on the Hill ... 45
IX.— The Preachers of Death - - . 49
X.— War and Warriors - -51
XI.— The New Idol .... 54
XII.— The Flies in the Market-place - 57
XIII.— Chastity 61
XIV.— The Friend ... 63
XV.— The Thousand and One Goals - - 65
VI
CONTENTS.
Zarathustra*s Discourses— (?<?«/?>««<?</.
XVI .—Neighbour- Love
XVII —The Way of the Creating One
XVIII.— Old and Young Women
XIX.— The Bite of the Adder -
XX. — Child and Marriage
XXI. —Voluntary Death
XXII.— The Bestowing Virtue -
68
70
74
n
79
82
85
SECOND PART,
XXIII.— The Child with the Mirror -
• 95
XXIV.-In the Happy Isles -
98
XXV.— The Pitifiil - - - .
102
XXVI.— The Priests . - - .
. 105
XXVI I.-The Virtuous - . - .
. 109
XXVIII.— The Rabble - - - .
• "3
XXIX.— The Tarantulas
. 116
XXX.— The Famous Wise Ones
120
XXXI.— The Night-Song
124
XXXI I.-The Dance-Song
. 126
XXXIII.— The Grave-Song
• 130
XXXIV.— Self-Surpassing
• 134
XXXV.— The Sublime Ones -
138
XXXVI.-The Land of Culture -
. 142
XXXVII.— Immaculate Perception
MS
XXXVIII.-Scholars . . . .
149
XXXIX.— Poets
'5'
XL.— Great Events . - . .
15s
XL I. -The Soothsayer
160
XLI I.— Redemption . - - .
165
XLIII.— Manly Prudence
171
XLIV.— The Stillest Hour
• '75
CONTENTS.
Vll
THIRD PART.
Zarathustra's Discourses— CV?«//>i«^//.
XLV.
-The Wanderer -
. .83
XLVI.-
—The Vision and the Enigma
- 187
XLVII.
-Involuntary Bliss
- '93
XLVIII.
-Before Sunrise
- 198
XLIX.
-The Bedwarfing Virtue -
202
L.
—On the Olive-Mount
- 209
LI.-
—On Passing-by -
- 213
LIL-
-The Apostates -
- 217
LIII.
—The Return Home
- 223
LIV.
-The Three Evil Things -
- 227
LV.-
-The Spirit of Gravity
- 234
LVI.-
-Old and New Tables -
- 239
LVII.
—The Convalescent
- 263
LVIII.-
—The Great Longing
- 271
LIX.-
—The Second Dance- Song
- 275
LX.-
-The Seven Seals •
- 280
FOURTH AND LAST PART.
LXI.— The Honey Sacrifice
. 287
LXII.— The Cry of Distress
. 291
LXIII.-Talk with the Kings
. 296
LXI v.— The Leech
• 301
LXV.— The Magician -
. 306
LXVI.-Out of Service -
• 314
LX VII.— The Ugliest Man
• 320
LXVIIL— The Voluntary Beggar •
. 326
LXIX.— The Shadow
■ 332
LXX.-Noon-Tide
• 336
LXXI.-The Greeting -
■ 340
viil CONTENTS.
Zarathustra's Discourses— Con/mued.
LXXII.— The Supper -
LXXIII.— The Higher Man
LXXIV.— The Song of Melancholy
LXXV.— Science
LXXVL— Among Daughters of the Desert
LXXVII.— The Awakening
LXXVIII.— The Ass-Festival
LXXIX.— The Drunken Song -
LXXX.— The Sign
347
350
363
369
373
379
384
388
398
Appendix—
Notes on "Thus Spake Zarathustra" by
Anthony M. Ludovici- - * • 405
INTRODUCTION.
By Mrs FOrster-Nietzsche.
HOW ZARATHUSTRA CAME INTO
BEING.
" ZARATHUSTRA " is my brother's most personal
work ; it is the history of his most individual
experiences, of his friendships, ideals, raptures,
bitterest disappointments and sorrows. Above it
all, however, there soars, transfiguring it, the image
of his greatest hopes and remotest aims. My
brother had the figure of Zarathustra in his mind
from his very earliest youth : he once told me
that even as a child he had dreamt of him. At
different periods in his life, he would call this
haunter of his dreams by different names ; " but
in the end," he declares in a note on the subject,
" I had to do a Persian the honour of identifying
him with this creature of my fancy. Persians were
the first to take a broad and comprehensive view
of history. Every series of evolutions, according
to them, was presided over by a prophet ; and
every prophet had his ' Hazar/ — his dynasty of a
thousand years."
All Zarathustra's views, as also his personality,
X mTRODUCTION.
were early conceptions of my brother's mind.
Whoever reads his posthumously published writ-
ings for the years 1869-82 with care, will con-
stantly meet with passages suggestive of
Zarathustra's thoughts and doctrines. For
instance, the ideal of the Superman is put forth
quite clearly in all his writings during the years
1873-75; and in "We Philologists," the following
remarkable observations occur : —
" How can one praise and glorify a nation as
a whole? — Even among the Greeks, it was the
individuals that counted."
"The Greeks are interesting and extremely
important because they reared such a vast number
of great individuals. How was this possible?
The question is one which ought to be studied.
" I am interested only in the relations of a people
to the rearing of the individual man, and among
the Greeks the conditions were unusually favour-
able for the development of the individual ; not
by any means owing to the goodness of the people,
but because of the struggles of their evil instincts.
" With the help of favourable measures great
individuals might be reared who would be both
different from and higher than those who heretofore
have owed their existence to mere chance. Here we
may still be hopeful : in the rearing of exceptional
men."
The notion of rearing the_Su£erman is only a
new form of an ideal Nietzsche already had in
his youth, that " the object of mankind should
lie in its highest individuals'' (or, as he writes
in " Schopenhiiuer ^S Educator " : " Mankind
INTRODUCTION. jd
ought constantly to be striving to produce great
men — this and nothing else is its duty.") But the
ideals he most revered in those days are no longer
held to be the highest types of men. No, around
this future ideal of a coming humanity — the Super-
man— the poet spread the veil of becoming. Who
can tell to what glorious heights man can still
ascend? That is why, after having tested the
worth of our noblest ideal — that of the Saviour,
in the light of the new valuations, the poet cries
with passionate emphasis in " Zarathustra " :
" Never yet hath there been a Superman.
Naked have I seen both of them, the greatest and
the smallest man : —
All-too-similar are they still to each other.
Verily even the greatest found I — all-too-
human ! " —
The phrase "thejrearing of the Superipan." has
very often been misunderstood. By the word
" rearing," in this case, is meant the act of modify-
ing by means of new and higher values — values
which, as laws and guides of conduct and opinion,
are now to rule over mankind. In general the
doctrine of the Superman can only be understood
correctly in conjunction with other ideas of the
author's, such as : — the Order of Rank, the Will to
Power, and the Transvaluation of all Values. He
assumes that Christianity, as a product of the
resentment of the botched and the weak, has put
in ban all that is beautiful, strong, proud, and
powerful, in fact all the qualities resulting from
strength, and that, in consequence, all forces which
tend to promote or elevate life have been seriously
xH INTRODUCT.ION.
undermined. Now, however, a new table of
valuations must be placed over mankind — namely,
that of the strong, mighty, and magnificent man,
overflowing with life and elevated to his zenith —
the Superman, who is now put before us with over-
powering passion as the aim of our life, hope, and
will. And just as the old system of valuing, which
only extolled the qualities favourable to the weak,
the suffering, and the oppressed, has succeeded in
producing a weak, suffering, and " modern " race,
so this new and reversed system of valuing ought
to rear a healthy, strong, lively, and courageous
type, which would be a glory to life itself Stated
briefly, the leading principle of this new system of
valuing would be : " All that proceeds from power
is good, all that springs from weakness is bad."
This type must not be regarded as a fanciful
figure: it is not a nebulous hope which is to be
realised at some indefinitely remote period,
thousands of years hence ; nor is it a new species
(in the Darwinian sense) of which we can know
nothing, and which it would therefore be somewhat
absurd to strive after. But it is meant to be
a possibility which men of the present could
realise with all their spiritual and physical energies,
provided they adopted the new values.
The author of " Zarathustra " never lost sight of
that egregious example of a transvaluation of all
values through Christianity, whereby the whole of
the deified mode of life and thought of the Greeks,
as well as strong Romedom, was almost annihilated
or transvalued in a comparatively short time.
Could not a rejuvenated Graeco- Roman system of
INTRODUCTION. Xlii
valuing (once it had been refined and made more
profound by the schooling which two thousand
years of Christianity had provided) effect another
such revolution within a calculable period of time,
until that glorious type of manhood shall finally
appear which is to be our new faith and hope, and
in the creation of which Zarathustra exhorts us to
participate ?
In his private notes on the subject the author
uses the expression " Superman " (always in the
singular, by-the-bye), as signifying "the most
thoroughly well-constituted type," as opposed to
" modern man " ; above all, however, he designates
Zarathustra himself as an example of the Superman.
In "Ecce Homo" he is careful to enlighten us
concerning the precursors and prerequisites to the
advent of this highest_t2^pe. in referring to a certain
passage in the " Gay Science " : —
" In order to understand this type, we must first
be quite clear in regard to the leading physiological
condition on which it depends : this condition is
what I call great healthiness. _ I know not how
to express my meaning more plainly or more
personally than I have done already in one of the
last chapters (Aphorism 382) of the fifth book of
the ' Gaya Scienza.' "
"We, the new, the nameless, the hard-to-understand,"—
it says there,— " we firstlings of a yet untried future— we
require for a new end also a new means, namely, a new
healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder and merrier
than all healthiness hitherto. He whose soul longeth to
experience the whole range of hitherto recognised values and
desirabilities, and to circumnavigate all the coasts of this
ideal * Mediterranean Sea,' who, from the adventures of his
Xfv INTRODUCTION.
most personal experience, wants to know how it feels to be
a conqueror, and discoverer of the ideal — as likewise how it
is with the artist, the saint, the legislator, the sage, the
scholar, the devotee, the prophet, and the godly non-con-
formist of the old style : — requires one thing above all for
that purpose, great healthiness — such healthiness as one not
only possesses, but also constantly acquires and must acquire,
because one unceasingly sacrifices it again, and must sacrifice
it ! — And now, after having been long on the way in this
fashion, we Argonauts of the ideal, more courageous perhaps
than prudent, and often enough shipwrecked and brought to
grief, nevertheless dangerously healthy, always healthy
again, — it would seem as if, in recompense for it all, that we
have a still undiscovered country before us, the boundaries
of which no one has yet seen, a beyond to all countries and
corners of the ideal known hitherto, a world so over-rich in
the beautiful, the strange, the questionable, the frightful, and
the divine, that our curiosity as well as our thirst for
possession thereof, have got out of hand — alas ! that nothing
will now any longer satisfy us ! —
" How could we still be content with thi man of the present
da^' after such outlooks, and with such a craving in our
conscience and consciousness? Sad enough; but it is un-
avoidable that we should look on the worthiest aims and
hopes of the man of the present day with ill-concealed
amusement, and perhaps should no longer look at them.
Another ideal runs on before us, a strange, tempting ideal
full of danger, to which we should not like to persuade any
one, because we do not so readily acknowledge any one's
right thereto : the ideal of a spirit who plays naively (that
is to say involuntarily and from overflowing abundance and
power) with everything that has hitherto been called holy,
good, intangible, or divine ; to whom the loftiest conception
which the people have reasonably made their measure of
value, would already practically imply danger, ruin, abase-
ment, or at least relaxation, blindness, or temporary self-
forgetfulness ; the ideal of a humanly superhuman welfare
and benevolence, which will often enough appear inhuman^
for example, when put alongside of all past seriousness on
INTRODUCTION. XV
earth, and alongside of all past solemnities in bearing, word,
tone, look, morality, and pursuit, as their truest involuntary
parody— and with which, nevertheless, j)erhaps the great
seriousness only commences, when the proper interrogative
mark is set up, the fate of the soul changes, the hour-hand
moves, and tragedy begins. ..."
Although the figure of Zarathustra and a large
number of the leading thoughts in this work had
appeared much earlier in the dreams and writings
of the author, " Thus Spake Zarathustra " did not
actually come into being until the month of August
• 1 88 1 in Sils Maria ; and it was the idea of the
Eternal Recurrence of all things which finally in-
duced my brother to set forth his new views io
poetic language. In regard to his first conception
of this idea, his autobiographical sketch, " Ecce
Homo," written in the autumn of 1888, contains
the following passage : —
" The fundamental idea of my work — namely, the
Eternal Recurrence of all things — this highest of all
possible formula; of a Yea-saying philosophy, first
occurred to me in August 1881. I made a note
of the thought on a sheet of paper, with the post-
script : 6,000 feet beyond men and time ! That
day I happened to be wandering through the woods
alongside of the lake of Silvaplana, and I halted
beside a huge, pyramidal and towering rock not
far from Surlei. It was then that the thought
struck me. Looking back now, I find that exactly
two months previous to this inspiration, I had had
an omen of its coming in the form of a sudden and
decisive alteration in my tastes — more particularly
in music. It would even be possible to consider all
xvi INTRODUCTION.
' Zarathustra ' as a musical composition. At all
events, a very necessary condition in its production
was a renaissance in myself of the art of hearing.
In a small mountain resort (Recoaro) near Vicenza,
where I spent the spring of 1881, I and my friend
and Maestro, Peter Gast — also one who had been
born again — discovered that the phoenix music
that hovered over us, wore lighter and brighter
plumes than it had done theretofore."
During the month of August 1881 my brother
resolved to reveal the teaching of the Eternal
Recurrence, in dithyrambic and psalmodic form,
through the mouth of Zarathustra. Among the
notes of this period, we found a page on which is
written the first definite plan of "Thus Spake
Zarathustra " :—
"Midday and Eternity."
"GUIDE-POSTS TO A NEW WaY OF LIVING."
Beneath this is written : —
" Zarathustra born on lake Urmi ; left his home in his
thirtieth year ; went into the province of Aria, and, during
ten years of solitude in the mountains, composed the Zend-
Avesta."
" The sun of knowledge stands once more at midday ;
and the serpent of eternity lies coiled in its light : It is
your time, ye midday brethren."
In that summer of 1 881, my brother, after many
years of steadily declining health, began at last to
rally, and it is to this first gush of the recovery of his
once splendid bodily condition that we owe not
only "The Gay Science," which in its mood may
be regarded as a prelude to " Zarathustra," but also
INTRODUCTION. Xvfi
" Zarathustra " itself. Just as he was beginning to
recuperate his health, however, an unkind destiny
brought him a number of most painful personal
experiences. His friends caused him many dis-
appointments, which were the more bitter to him,
inasmuch as he regarded friendship as such a
sacred institution ; and for the first time in his life
he realised the whole horror of that loneliness to
which, perhaps, all greatness is condemned. But
to be forsaken is something very different from
deliberately choosing blessed loneliness. How he
longed, in those days, for the ideal friend who would
thoroughly understand him, to whom he would
be able to say all, and whom he imagined he had
found at various periods in his life from his earliest
youth onwards. Now, however, that the way he
had chosen grew ever more perilous and steep, he
found nobody who could follow him : he therefore
created a perfect friend for himself in the ideal form
of a majestic philosopher, and made this creation
the preacher of his gospel to the world.
Whether my brother would ever have written
"Thus Spake Zarathustra" according to the first
plan sketched in the summer of 1881, if he had
not had the disappointments already referred to,
is now an idle question ; but perhaps where " Zara-
thustra " is concerned, we may also say with Master
Eckhardt : " The fleetest beast to bear you to
perfection is suffering."
My brother writes as follows about the origin
of the first part of " Zarathustra " :— " In the winter
of 1882-83, I was living on the charming little Gulf
of Rapallo, not far from Genoa, and between
XViil INTRODUCTION.
Chiavari and Cape Porto Fino. My health was
not very good ; the winter was cold and exception-
ally rainy ; and the small inn in which I lived was
so close to the water that at night my sleep would
be disturbed if the sea were high. These circum-
stances were surely the very reverse of favourable ;
and yet in spite of it all, and as if in demonstration
of my belief that everything decisive comes to life
in spite of every obstacle, it was precisely during
this winter and in the midst of these unfavourable
circumstances that my * Zarathustra ' originated.
In the morning I used to start out in a southerly
direction up the glorious road to Zoagli, which rises
alolt through a forest of pines and gives one a view
far out into the sea. In the afternoon, as often as
my health permitted, I walked round the whole
bay from Santa Margherita to beyond Porto Fino.
This spot was all the more interesting to me,
inasmuch as it was so dearly loved by the Emperor
Frederick III. In the autumn of 1886 I chanced
to be there again when he was revisiting this small,
forgotten world of happiness for the last time. It
was on these two roads that all * Zarathustra ' came
to me, above all Zarathustra himself as a type ; —
I ought rather to say that it was on these walks
that these ideas waylaid me."
The first part of " Zarathustra " was written in
about ten days — that is to say, from the beginning
to about the middle of February 1883. "The last
lines were written precisely in the hallowed hour
when Richard Wagner gave up the ghost in
Venice."
With the exception of the ten days occupied in
INTRODUCTION. XIX
composfnpj the first part of this book, my brother
often referred to this winter as the hardest and
sickliest he had ever experienced. He did not,
however, mean thereby that his former disorders
were troubh'ng him, but that he was suffering from
a severe attack of influenza which he had caught
in Santa Margherita, and which tormented him for
several weeks after his arrival in Genoa. As a
matter of fact, however, what he complained of
most was his spiritual condition — that indescribable
forsakenness — to which he gives such heartrending
expression in *' Zarathustra." Even the reception
which the first part met with at the hands of
friends and acquaintances was extremely dis-
heartening : for almost all those to whom he pre-
sented copies of the work misunderstood it. " I
found no one ripe for many of my thoughts ; the
case of ' Zarathustra' proves that one can speak with
the utmost clearness, and yet not be heard by any
one." My brother was very much discouraged by
the feebleness of the response he was given, and
as he was striving just then to give up the practice
of taking hydrate of chloral — a drug he had begun
to take while ill with influenza, — the following
spring, spent in Rome, was a somewhat gloomy
one for him. He writes about it as follows : — " I
spent a melancholy spring in Rome, where I only
just managed to live, — and this was no easy matter.
This city, which is absolutely unsuited to the poet-
author of ' Zarathustra,' and for the choice of which
I was not responsible, made me inordinately miser-
able. I tried to leave it. I wanted to go to
Aquila — the opposite of Rome in every respect,
XX INTRODUCTION.
and actually founded in a spirit of enmity towards
that city (just as I also shall found a city some
day), as a memento of an atheist and genuine
enemy of the Church — a person very closely re-
lated to me, — the great Hohenstaufen, the Emperor
Frederick II. But Fate lay behind it all: I
had to return again to Rome. In the end I was
obliged to be satisfied with the Piazza Barberini,
after I had exerted myself in vain to find an anti-
Christian quarter. I fear that on one occasion, to
avoid bad smells as much as possible, I actually
inquired at the Palazzo del Quirinale whether they
could not provide a quiet room for a philosopher.
In a chamber high above the Piazza just men-
tioned, from which one obtained a general view of
Rome and could hear the fountains plashing far
below, the loneliest of all songs was composed —
' The Night-Song.' About this time I was obsessed
bv an unspeakably sad melody, the refrain of
which I recognised in the words, 'dead through
immortality.' "
We remained somewhat too long in Rome that
spring, and what with the effect of the increasing
heat and the discouraging circumstances already
described, my brother resolved not to write any
more, or in any case, not to proceed with " Zara-
thuslra," although I offered to relieve him of all
trouble in connection with the proofs and the
publisher. When, however, we returned to Switzer-
land towards the end of June, and he found himself
once more in the familiar and exhilarating air of
the mountains, all his joyous creative powers re-
vived, and in a note to me announcing the dispatch
INTRODUCTION. 3CX1
of some manuscript, he wrote as follows : " I have
engaged a place here for three months : forsooth,
I am the greatest fool to allow my courage to be
sapped from me by the climate of Italy. Now and
again I am troubled by the thought : what next ?
My ' future ' is the darkest thing in the world to
me, but as there still remains a great deal for me
to do, I suppose I ought rather to think of doing
this than of my future, and leave the rest to thee
and the gods."
The second part of " Zarathustra " was written
between the 26th of June and the 6th July. " This
summer, finding myself once more in the sacred
place where the first thought of* Zarathustra' flashed
across my mind, I conceived the second part. Ten
days sufficed. Neither for the second, the first, nor
the third part, have I required a day longer."
He often used to speak of the ecstatic mood in
which he wrote " Zarathustra " ; how in his walks over
hill and dale the ideas would crowd into his mind,
and how he would note them down hastily in a
note- book from which he would transcribe them on
his return, sometimes working till midnight. He
says in a letter to me : " You can have no idea
of the vefhemence of such composition," and in
" Ecce Homo "(autumn 1888) he describes as follows
with passionate enthusiasm the incomparable mood
in which he created Zarathustra : —
** — Has any one at the end of the nineteenth
century any distinct notion of what poets of a
stronger age understood by the word inspiration ?
If not, I will describe it. If one had the smallest
vestige of superstition in one, it would hardly be
XxJl INTRODUCTION.
possible to set aside completely the idea that one
is the mere incarnation, mouthpiece or medium of
an almighty power. The idea of revelation in the
sense that something becomes suddenly visible and
audible with indescribable certainty and accuracy,
which profoundly convulses and upsets one —
describes simply the matter of fact. One hears —
one does not seek ; one takes — one does not ask
who gives : a thought suddenly flashes up like
lightning, it comes with necessity, unhesitatingly
— I have never had any choice in the matter.
There is an ecstasy such that the immense strain
of it is sometimes relaxed by a flood of tears, along
with which one's steps either rush or involuntarily
lag, alternately. There is the feeling that one is
completely out of hand, with the very distinct con-
sciousness of an endless number of fine thrills and
quiverings to the very toes ; — there is a depth of
happiness in which the painfuUest and gloomiest
do not operate as antitheses, but as conditioned, as
demanded in the sense of necessary shades of
colour in such an overflow of light. There is an
instinct for rhythmic relations which embraces
wide areas of forms (length, the need of a wide-
embracing rhythm, is almost the measure of the
force of an inspiration, a sort of counterpart to its
pressure and tension). Everything happens quite
involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of
freedom, of absoluteness, of power and divinity.
The involuntariness of the figures and similes is
the most remarkable thing ; one loses all percep-
tion of what constitutes the figure and what con-
stitutes the simile ; everything seems to present
INTRODUCTION. XXlll
itself as the readiest, the correctest and the simplest
means of expression. It actually seems, to use
one of Zarathustra's own phrases, as if all things
came unto one, and would fain be similes : ' Here
do all things come caressingly to thy talk and
flatter thee, for they want to ride upon thy back.
On every simile dost thou here ride to every truth.
Here fly open unto thee all being's words and
word-cabinets ; here all being wanteth to become
words, here all becoming wanteth to learn of thee
how to talk.' This is my experience of inspiration.
I do not doubt but that one would have to go
back thousands of years in order to find some one
who could say to me : It is mine also ! — "
In the autumn of 1883 my brother left the
Engadine for Germany and stayed there a few
weeks. In the following winter, after wandering
somewhat erratically through Stresa, Genoa, and
Spezia, he landed in Nice, where the climate so
happily promoted his creative powers that he wrote
the third part of " Zarathustra." "In the winter,
beneath the halcyon sky of Nice, which then looked
down upon me for the first time in my life, I found
the third 'Zarathustra' — and came to the end of my
task ; the whole having occupied me scarcely a
year. Many hidden corners and heights in the
landscapes round about Nice are hallowed to me
by unforgettable moments. That decisive chapter
entitled 'Old and New Tables' was composed
in the very difficult ascent from the station to Eza
— that wonderful Moorish village in the rocks. My
most creative moments were always accompanied
by unusual muscular activity. The body is inspired:
xxiv INTROt)UCTION.
let us waive the question of the 'soul.' I might
often have been seen dancing in those days.
Without a suggestion of fatigue I could then walk
for seven or eight hours on end among the hills.
I slept well and laughed well — I was perfectly
robust and patient."
As we have seen, each of the three parts of
" Zarathustra " was written, after a more or less short
period of preparation, in about ten days. The
composition of the fourth part alone was broken
by occasional interruptions. The first notes re-
lating to this part were written while he and I were
staying together in Zurich in September 1884. In
the following November, while staying at Mentone,
he began to elaborate these notes, and after a long
pause, finished the manuscript at Nice between the
end of January and the middle of February 1885.
My brother then called this part the fourth and
last ; but even before, and shortly after it had been
privately printed, he wrote to me saying that he
still intended writing a fifth and sixth part, and
notes relating to these parts are now in my
possession. This fourth part (the original MS. of
which contains this note : "Only for my friends,
not for the public") is written in a particularly
personal spirit, and those few to whom he presented
a copy of it, he pledged to the strictest secrecy
concerning its contents. He often thought of
making this fourth part public also, but doubted
whether he would ever be able to do so without
considerably altering certain portions of it. At all
events he resolved to distribute this manuscript
production, of which only forty copies were printed,
INTRODUCTION. XXV
only among those who had proved themselves
worthy of it, and it speaks eloquently of his utter
loneliness and need of sympathy in those days,
that he had occasion to present only seven copies
of his book according to this resolution.
Already at the beginning of this history I hinted
at the reasons which led my brother to select a
Persian as the incarnation of his ideal of the majestic
philosopher. His reasons, however, for choosing
Zarathustra of all others to be his mouthpiece, he
gives us in the following words : — " People have
never asked me, as they should have done, what the
name Zarathustra precisely means in my mouth,
in the mouth of the first Immoralist; for what
distinguishes that philosopher from all others in
the past is the very fact that he was exactly the
reverse of an immoralist. Zarathustra was the first
to see in the struggle between good and evil the
essential wheel in the working of things. The
translation of morality into the metaphysical, as
force, cause, end in itself, was his work. But the
very question suggests its own answer. Zarathustra
created the most portentous error, morality, con-
sequently he should also be the first to perceive that
error, not only because he has had longer and
greater experience of the subject than any other
thinker — all history is the experimental refutation
of the theory of the so-called moral order of things :
— the more important point is that Zarathustra was
more truthful than any other thinker. In his teach-
ing alone do we meet with truthfulness upheld as
the highest virtue — i.e. : the reverse of the cowardice
of the * idealist ' who flees from reality. Zarathustra
XXVl INTRODUCTION.
had more courage in his body than any other
thinker before or after him. To tell the truth and
to aim straight : that is the first Persian virtue. Am
I understood? . . . The overcoming of morality
through itself — through truthfulness, the overcoming
of the moralist through his opposite — through me — :
that is what the name Zarathustra means in my
mouth."
ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE.
Nietzsche Archives,
Weimar, December 1905.
ZARATHUSTRA'S DISCOURSES.
i
^
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE.
I.
When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his
home and the lake of his home, and went into the
mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and his
solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it.
But at last his heart changed, — and rising one
morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the
sun, and spake thus unto it :
Thou great star ! What would be thy happiness
if thou hadst not those for whom thou shinest !
For ten years hast thou climbed hither unto my
cave : thou wouldst have wearied of thy light and
of the journey, had it not been for me, mine eagle,
and my serpent.
But we awaited thee every morning, took from
thee thine overflow, and blessed thee for it.
Lo ! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that
iaath gathered too much honey ; I need hands out-
stretched to take it
I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise
have once more become joyous in their folly, and
the poor happy in their riches.
Therefore must I descend into the deep : as thou
doest in the evening, when thou goest behind the
sea, and givest light also to the nether-world, thou
exuberant star !
4 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Like thee must I go down, as men say, to whom
I shall descend.
Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst
behold even the greatest happiness without envy !
Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that the
water may flow golden out of it, and carry every-
where the reflection of thy bliss !
Lo ! This cup is again going to empty itself,
and Zarathustra is again going to be a man.
Thus began Zarathustra's down-going.
2.
Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no
one meeting him. When he entered the forest,
however, there suddenly stood before him an old
man, who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And
thus spake the old man to Zarathustra :
" No stranger to me is this wanderer : many
years ago passed he by. Zarathustra he was called ;
but he hath altered.
Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the moun-
tains : wilt thou now carry thy fire into the valleys ?
Fearest thou not the incendiary's doom ?
Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye,
and no loathing lurketh about his mouth. Goeth
he not along like a dancer ?
Altered is Zarathustra ; a child hath Zarathustra
become ; an awakened one is Zarathustra : what
wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers ?
As in the sea hast thou lived in solitude, and it
hath borne thee up. Alas, wilt thou now go ashore ?
Alas, wilt thou again drag thy body thyself? "
zarathustra's prologue. 5
Zarathustra answered : " I love mankind."
" Why," said the saint, " did I go into the forest
and the desert? Was it not because I loved men
far too well ?
Now I love God : men. I do not love. Man is a
thmg too imperfect for me. Love to man would be
fatal to me."
Zarathustra answered : " What spake I of love 1
I am bringing gifts unto men."
"Give them nothing," said the saint. "Take
rather part of their load, and carry it along with
them — that will be most agreeable unto them : if
only it be agreeable unto thee !
If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them
no more than an alms, and let them also beg
for it ! "
" No," replied Zarathustra, " I give no alms. I
am not poor enough for that."
The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and spake
thus : " Then see to it that they accept thy
treasures ! They are distrustful of anchorites, and
do not believe that we come with gifts.
The fall of our footsteps ringeth too hollow
through their streets. And just as at night, when
they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before
sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us :
Where goeth the thief?
Go not to men, but stay in the forest I Go rather
to the animals! Why not be like me — a bear
amongst bears, a bird amongst birds ? "
" And what doeth the saint in the forest ? " asked
Zarathustra.
The saint answered : " I make hymns and sing
6 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
them ; and in making hymns I laugh and weep
and mumble : thus do I praise God.
With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling
do I praise the God who is my God. But what
dost thou bring us as a gift ? "
When Zarathustra had heard these words, he
bowed to the saint and said : * What should I have
to give thee! Let me rather hurry hence lest I
take aught away from thee ! " — And thus they
parted from one another, the old man and Zara-
thustra, laughing like schoolboys.
When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said
to his heart: "Could it be possible! This old
saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that
God is dead!"
3.
When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town
which adjoineth the forest, he found many people
assembled in the market-place; for it had been
announced that a rope-dancer would give a per-
formance. And Zarathustra spake thus unto the
people :
/ teach you the Superman. Man is something
that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to
surpass man ?
All beings hitherto have created something
beyond themselves : and ye want to be the ebb
of that great tide, and would rather go back to
the beast than surpass man ?
What is the ape to man ? A laughing-stock, a
thing of shame. And jusj; thejgime shall man be to
the Superman : a lauglRng-stock, a thing of shame.
ZARATWUSTRAS PROLOGUE. J
Ye have made your way from the worm to man,
and much within you is still worm. Once were ye
apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than
any of the apes.
Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony
and hybrid of plant and phantom. But do I bid
you become phantoms or plants ?
Lo, I teach you the Superman !
The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let
your will say : The Superman shall be the meaning
^ the earth L
I conjure you, my brethren, remain true to the
earth, and believe not those who speak unto you of
superearthly hopes ! Poisoners are they, whether
they know it or not.
Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and
poisoned ones themselves, of whom the earth is
weary : so away with them !
Once blasphemy against God was the greatest
blasphemy ; but God died, and therewith also
those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is
now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart
of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the
earth !
Once the soul looked contemptuously on the
body, and then that contempt was the supreme
thing : — the soul wished the body meagre, ghastly,
and famished. Thus it thought to escape from the
body and the earth.
Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and
famished; and cruelty was the delight of that soul!
But ye, also, my brethren, tell me : What doth
your body say about your soul? Is your soul
8 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
not poverty and pollution and wretched self-
complacency ?
Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be
a sea, to receive a polluted stream without becoming
impure.
Lo, I teach you the Superman : he is that sea ;
in him can your great contempt be submerged.
What is the greatest thing ye can experience?
It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which
even your happiness becometh loathsome unto you,
and so also your reason and virtue.
The hour when ye say : " What good is my
happiness ! It is poverty and pollution and
wretched self-complacency. But my happiness
should justify existence itself! "
The hour when ye say : " What good is my
reason ! Doth it long for knowledge as the lion
for his food ? It is poverty and pollution and
wretched self-complacency ! "
The hour when ye say : " What good is my
virtue ! As yet it hath not made me passionate.
How weary I am of my good and my bad ! It is
all poverty and pollution and wretched self-
complacency ! "
The hour when ye say : " What good is my
justice ! I do not see that I am fervour and fuel.
The just, however, are fervour and fuel ! "
The hour when we say : " What good is my
pity! Is not pity the cross on which he is
nailed who loveth man ? But my pity is not a
crucifixion."
Have ye ever spoken thus ? Have ye ever cried
thus ? Ah! would that I had heard you crying thus!
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE. 9
It is not your sin — it is your self-satisfaction that
crieth unto heaven ; your very sparingness in sin
crieth unto heaven !
Where is the h'ghtning to lick you with its
tongue? Where is the frenzy with which ye
should be inoculated ?
Lo, I teach you the Superman : he is that light-
ning, he is that frenzy ! —
When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the
people called out : " We have now heard enough
of the rope-dancer ; it is time now for us to see
him ! " And all the people laughed at Zarathustra.
But the rope-dancer, who thought the words applied
to him, began his performance.
4-
Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and
wondered. Then he spake thus :
Man is ft rgpf ^tYf^rh^t] |^p.fu7^pq |hf> animal ^nr^
Jthe^ Superman — a rope over an abyss.
^kA dangerous crossing, a dangerouswayfaring. a _
dangerous^Oukiii^-back. a dangerous ^embling
and halting.
What is great in man is that he is a bridge and
not a goal : what is lovable in man is that he is an
over-going and a down-going.
I love those that know not how to live except as
down-goers, for they are the over-goers.
I love the great despisers, because they are the
great adorers, and arrows of longing for the other
shore.
I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond
the stars for going down and being sacrifices, but
lO THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth of
the Superman may hereafter arrive.
I love him who liveth in order to know, and
seeketh to know in order that the Superman may
hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his own down-
going.
I love him who laboureth and inventeth, that he
may build the house for the Superman, and prepare
for him earth, animal, and plant : for thus seeketh
he his own down -going.
I love him who loveth his virtue : for virtue is
the will to down-going, and an arrow of longing.
I love him who reserveth no share of spirit for
himself, but wanteth to be wholly the spirit of his
virtue : thus walketh he as spirit over the bridge.
I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination
and destiny : thus, for the sake of his virtue, he is
willing to live on, or live no more.
I love him who desireth not too many virtues.
One VF^^ie is more of a virtue than two, because it
is more yl a knot for one's destiny to cling to.
I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth
no thanks and doth not give back : for he always
bestoweth, and desireth not to keep for himself.
I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in
his favour, and who then asketh : " Am I a dishonest
player ? " — for he is willing to succumb.
I love him who scattereth golden words in
advance of his deeds, and always doeth more than
he promiseth : for he seeketh his own down-going.
I love him who justifieth the future ones, and
redeemeth the past ones: for he is willing to
succumb through the present ones.
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE. II
I love him who chasteneth his God, because he
loveth his God : for he must succumb through the
wrath of his God.
I love him whose soul is deep even in the wound-
ing, and may succumb through a small matter:
thus goeth he willingly over the bridge.
I love him whose soul is so overfull that he for-
getteth himself, and all things are in him : thus all
things become his down-going.
I love him who is of a free spirit and a free
heart : thus is his head only the bowels of his heart ;
his heart, however, causeth his down-going.
I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by
one out of the dark cloud that lowereth over man :
they herald the coming of the lightning, and
succumb as heralds.
Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy
drop out of the cloud ; the lightning, however, is
the Superman. —
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he
again looked at the people, and was silent. " There
they stand," said he to his heart; "there they
laugh : they understand me not ; I am not the
mouth for these ears.
Must one first batter their ears, that they may
learn to hear with their eyes ? Must one clatter like
kettledrums and penitential preachers ? Or do they
only believe the stammerer ?
They have something whereof they are proud.
What do they call it, that which maketh them
12 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
proud ? Culture, they call it ; it distinguisheth
them from the goatherds.
They dislike, therefore, to hear of ' contempt ' of
themselves. So I will appeal to their pride.
I will speak unto them of the most contemptible
thing : that, however, is the last man ! "
" And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people :
It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for
man to plant the germ of his highest hope.
Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil
will one day be poor and exhausted, and no lofty
tree will any longer be able to grow thereon.
Alas ! there cometh the time when man will no
longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man
— and the string of his bow will have unlearned
to whizz !
I tell you : one must still have chaos in one, to
give birth to a dancing star. I tell you : ye have
still chaos in you.
Alas ! There cometh the time when man will no
longer give birth to any star. Alas ! There cometh
the time of the most despicable man, who can no
longer despise himself.
Lo ! I show you the last man.
"What is love? What is creation? What is
longing? What is a star?" — so asketh the last
man and blinketh.
The earth hath then become small, and on it there
hoppeth the last man who maketh everything small.
His species is ineradicable like that of the ground-
flea ; the last man liveth longest.
"We have discovered happiness" — say the last
men, and blink thereby.
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE. 13
They have left the regions where it is hard to
live ; for they need warmth. One still loveth one's
neighbour and rubbeth against him ; for one needeth
warmth.
Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider
sinful : they walk warily. He is a fool who still
stumbleth over stones or men !
A little poison now and then : that maketh
pleasant dreams. And much poison at last for a
pleasant death.
One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But
one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.
One no longer becometh poor or rich ; both are
too burdensome. Who still wanteth to rule ? Who
still wanteth to obey ? Both are too burdensome.
• No shepherd, and one herd ! Every one want-
•eth the same ; every one is equal : he who hath
• other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the mad-
• house.
" Formerly all the world was insane," — say the
subtlest of them, and blink thereby.
They are clever and know all that hath happened :
so there is no end to their raillery. People still fall
out, but are soon reconciled — otherwise it spoileth
their stomachs.
They have their little pleasures for the day, and
their little pleasures for the night : but they have
a regard for health.
" We have discovered happiness," — say the last
men, and blink thereby. —
And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra,
which is also called " The Prologue " : for at this
point the shouting and mirth of the multitude
14 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
interrupted him. " Give us this last man, O Zara-
thustra," — they called out — "make us into these
last men ! Then will we make thee a present of
the Superman ! " And all the people exulted and
smacked their lips. Zarathustra, however, turned
sad, and said to his heart :
" They understand me not : I am not the mouth
for these ears.
Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains;
too much have I hearkened unto the brooks and
trees: now do I speak unto them as unto the
goatherds.
Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in
the morning. But they think me cold, and a
mocker with terrible jests.
And now do they look at me and laugh : and
while they laugh they hate me too. There is ice
in their laughter."
6.
Then, however, something happened which made
every mouth mute and every eye fixed. In the
meantime, of course, the rope-dancer had com-
menced his performance : he had come out at a
little door, and was going along the rope which was
stretched between two towers, so that it hung above
the market-place and the people. When he was
just midway across, the little door opened once
more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon
sprang out, and went rapidly after the first one.
"Go on, halt-foot," cried his frightful voice, "go
on, lazy-bones, interloper, sallow-face ! — lest I tickle
thee with my heel ! What dost thou here between
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE. 1$
the towers? In the tower is the place for thee,
thou shouldst be locked up; to one better than
thyself thou blockest the way ! " — And with every
word he came nearer and nearer the first one.
When, however, he was but a step behind, there
happened the frightful thing which made every
mouth mute and every eye fixed : — he uttered a yell
like a devil, and jumped over the other who was in
his way. The latter, however, when he thus saw
his rival triumph, lost at the same time his head
and his footing on the rope ; he tl>rew his pole
away, and shot downwards faster than it, like an
eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The market-
place and the people were like the sea when the
storm Cometh on : they all flew apart and in
disorder, especially where the body was about
to fall.
Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and
just beside him fell the body, badly injured and
disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while con-
sciousness returned to the shattered man, and he
saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. " What art
thou doing there ? " said he at last, " I knew long
ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he
draggeth me to hell : wilt thou prevent him ?"
"On mine honour, my friend," answered Zara-
thustra, " there is nothing of all that whereof thou
spcakest : there is no devil and no hell. Thy soul
will be dead even sooner than thy body : fear, there-
fore, nothing any more ! "
The man looked up distrustfully. " If thou
speakest the truth," said he, " I lose nothing when
I lose my life. I am not much more than an
l6 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
animal which hath been taught to dance by blows
and scanty fare."
" Not at all," said Zarathustra, " thou hast made
danger thy calling ; therein there is nothing con-
temptible. Now thou perishest by thy calling :
therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands."
When Zarathustra had said this the dying one
did not reply further ; but he moved his hand as if
he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude.
7.
Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market-
place veiled itself in gloom. Then the people dis-
persed, for even curiosity and terror become fatigued.
Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead
man on the ground, absorbed in thought : so he
forgot the time. But at last it became night, and
a cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then arose
Zarathustra and said to his heart :
Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made
to-day ! It is not a man he hath caught, but a
corpse.
Sombre is human life, and as yet without mean-
ing : a buffoon may be fateful to it.
• I want to teach men the sense of their existence,
which is the Superman, the lightning out of the
dark cloud — man.
But still am I far from them, and my sense
speaketh not unto their sense. To men I am still
something between a fool and a corpse.
Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways of
Zarathustra. Come, thou cold and stiff companion !
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE. 1 7
I carry thee to the place where I shall bury thee
with mine own hands.
8.
When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he
put the corpse upon his shoulders and set out on
his way. Yet had he not gone a hundred steps,
when there stole a man up to him and whispered in
his ear — and lo ! he that spake was the buffoon from
the tower. " Leave this town,0 Zarathustra," said he,
" there are too many here who hate thee. The good
and just hate thee, and call thee their enemy and
despiser ; the believers in the orthodox belief hate
thee, and call thee a danger to the multitude. It was
thy good fortune to be laughed at : and verily thou
spakest like a buffoon. It was thy good fortune to
associate with the dead dog ; by so humiliating
thyself thou hast saved thy life to-day. Depart,
however, from this town, — or to-morrow I shall
jump over thee, a living man over a dead one."
And when he had said this, the buffoon vanished ;
Zarathustra, however, went on through the dark
streets.
At the gate of the town the grave-diggers met
him : they shone their torch on his face, and, re-
cognising Zarathustra, they sorely derided him.
"Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog: a
fine thing that Zarathustra hath turned a grave-
digger! For our hands are too cleanly for that
roast Will Zarathustra steal the bite from the
devil? Well then, good luck to the repast! If
only the devil is not a better thief than Zara-
thustra ! — he will steal them both, he will cat them
B
l8 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
both ! " And they laughed among themselves, and
put their heads together.
Zarathustra made no answer thereto, but went
on his way. When he had gone on for two hours,
past forests and swamps, he had heard too much
of the hungry howling of the wolves, and he him-
self became a-hungry. So he halted at a lonely
house in which a light was burning.
" Hunger attacketh me," said Zarathustra, " like
a robber. Among forests and swamps my hunger
attacketh me, and late in the night.
"Strange humours hath my hunger. Often it
Cometh to me only after a repast, and all day it
hath failed to come : where hath it been ? "
And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door
of the house. An old man appeared, who carried
a light, and asked : " Who cometh unto me and my
bad sleep ? "
" A living man and a dead one," said Zarathustra,
" Give me something to eat and drink, I forgot it
during the day. He that feedeth the hungry re-
fresheth his own soul, saith wisdom."
The old man withdrew, but came back im-
mediately and offered Zarathustra bread and wine.
" A bad country for the hungry," said he ; " that is
why I live here. Animal and man come unto me,
the anchorite. But bid thy companion eat and
drink also, he is wearier than thou." Zarathustra
answered : " My companion is dead ; I shall hardly
be able to persuade him to eat." " That doth not
concern me," said the old man sullenly ; " he that
knocketh at my door must take what I offer him.
Eat, and fare ye well ! " —
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE. 19
Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for two
hours, trusting to the path and the light of the
stars : for he was an experienced night-walker, and
liked to look into the face of all that slept.* When
the morning dawned, however, Zarathustra found
himself in a thick forest, and no path was any
longer visible. He then put the dead man in a
hollow tree at his head — for he wanted to protect
him from the wolves — and laid himself down on
the ground and moss. And immediately he fell
asleep, tired in body, but with a tranquil soul.
Long slept Zarathustra ; and not only the rosy
dawn passed over his head, but also the morning.
At last, however, his eyes opened, and amazedly he
gazed into the forest and the stillness, amazedly he
gazed into himself. Then he arose quickly, like a
seafarer who all at once seeth the land ; and he
shouted for joy : for he saw a new truth. And he
spake thus to his heart :
A light hath dawned upon me : I need com-
panions— living ones ; not dead companions and
corpses, which I carry with me where I will.
But I need living companions, who will follow
me because they want to follow themselves — and
to the place where I will.
A light hath dawned upon me. Not to the
people is Zarathustra to speak, but to companions I
Zarathustra shall not be the herd's herdsman and
hound !
To allure many from the herd — for that purpose
20 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
have I come. The people and the herd must be
angry with me : a robber shall Zarathustra be
called by the herdsmen. *
Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the
good and just. Herdsmen, I say, but they call
themselves the believers in the orthodox belief.
Behold the good and just! Whom do they
hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of
values, the breaker, the law-breaker : — he, however,
is the creator.
Behold the believers of all beliefs ! Whom do
they hate most ? Him who breaketh up their tables
of values, the breaker, the law-breaker : — he, how-
ever, is the creator.
Companions, the creator seeketh, not corpses —
and not herds or believers either. Fellow-creators
the creator seeketh — those who grave new values
on new tables.
Companions, the creator seeketh, and fellow-
reapers : for everything is ripe for the harvest with
him. But he lacketh the hundred sickles : so he
plucketh the ears of corn and is vexed.
Companions, the creator seeketh, and such as
know how to whet their sickles. Destroyers, will
they be called, and despisers of good and evil. But
they are the reapers and rejoicers.
Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh ; fellow-
reapers and fellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh :
what hath he to do with herds and herdsmen and
corpses !
And thou, my first companion, rest in peace!
Well have I buried thee in thy hollow tree ; well
have I hid thee from the wolves.
ZARATHUSTRA'S PROLOGUE. 21
But I part from thee; the time hath arrived.
Twixt rosy dawn and rosy dawn there came unto
me a new truth.
I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to be a
grave-digger. Not any more will I discourse unto
the people ; for the last time have I spoken unto
the dead.
With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers
will I associate : the rainbow will I show them, and
all the stairs to the Superman.
To the lone-dwellers will I sing my song, and to
the twain-dwellers ; and unto him who hath still
ears for the unheard, will I make the heart heavy
with my happiness.
I make for my goal, I follow my course ; over
the loitering and tardy will I leap. Thus let my
on-going be their down-going !
lO.
This had Zarathustra said to his heart wh«n the
sun stood at noon-tide. Then he looked inquiringly
aloft, — for he heard above him the sharp call of a
bird. And behold ! An eagle swept through the
air in wide circles, and on it hung a serpent, not
like a prey, but like a friend: for it kept itself coiled
round the eagle's neck.
" They are mine animals," said Zarathustra, and
rejoiced in his heart.
"The proudest animal under the sun, and the
wisest animal under the sun, — they have come out
to reconnoitre.
They want to know whether Zarathustra still
liveth. Verily, do I still live ?
22 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
More dangerous have I found it among men than
among animals; in dangerous paths goeth Zara-
thustra. Let mine animals lead me ! "
When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered
the words of the saint in the forest. Then he
sighed and spake thus to his heart :
" Would that I were wiser ! Would that I were
wise from the very heart, like my serpent !
But I am asking the impossible. Therefore do
I ask my pride to go always with my wisdom !
And if my wisdom should some day forsake me :
— alas ! it loveth to fly away ! — may my pride then
fly with my folly ! "
Thus began Zarathustra's down-going.
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
FIRST PART
I.— THE THREE METAMORPHOSES.
Three metamorphoses of the spirit do I desig-
nate to you : how the spirit becometh a camel, the
camel a lion, and the lion at last a child.
Many heavy things are there for the spirit, the
strong load -bearing spirit in which reverence
dwelleth : for the heavy and the heaviest longeth
its strength.
What is heavy? so asketh the load bearing spirit ;
then kneeleth it down like the camel, and wanteth
to be well laden.
What is the heaviest thing, ye heroes? asketh
the load-bearing spirit, that I may take it upon me
and rejoice in my strength.
Is it not this: To humiliate oneself in order to
mortify one's pride? To exhibit one's folly in
order to mock at one's wisdom ?
Or is it this : To desert our cause when it cele-
brateth its triumph? To ascend high mountains
to tempt the tempter ?
Or is it this : To feed on the acorns and grass of
knowledge, and for the sake of truth to suffer
hunger of soul ?
Or is it this : To be sick and dismiss comforters,
and make friends of the deaf, who never hear thy
requests ?
Or is it this : To go into foul water when it is the
26 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
water of truth, and not disclaim cold frogs and hot
toads ?
Or is it this : To love those who despise us, and
give one's hand to the phantom when it is going
to frighten us ?
All these heaviest things the load-bearing spirit
taketh upon itself: and like the camel, which, when
laden, hasteneth into the wilderness, so hasteneth
the spirit into its wilderness.
But in the loneliest wilderness happeneth the
second metamorphosis : here the spirit becometh
a lion ; freedom will it capture, and lordship in its
own wilclerness.
Its last Lord it here seeketh : hostile will it be to
him, and to its last God ; for victory will it struggle
with the great dragon.
What is the great dragon which the spirit is no
longer inclined to call Lord and God? " Thou-shalt,"
is the great dragon called. But the spirit of the
lion saith, " I will."
"Thou-shalt," lieth in its path, sparkling with
gold — a scale-covered beast ; and on every scale
glittereth golden, " Thou shalt ! "
The values of a thousand years glitter on those
scales, and thus speaketh the mightiest of all
dragons : " All the values of things — glitter on me.
All values have already been created, and all
created values — do I represent. Verily, there
shall be no ' I will ' any more." Thus speaketh the
dragon.
My brethren, wherefore is there need of the lion
in the spirit? Why sufficeth not the beast of
burden, which renounceth and is reverent ?
I. — THE THREE METAMORPHOSES. 27
To create new values — that, even the lion cannot
yet accomplish : but to create itself freedom for
new creating — that can the might of the lion do.
To create itself freedom, and give a holy Nay
even unto duty : for that, my brethren, there is
need of the lion.
To assume the right to new values — that is the
most formidable assumption for a load-bearing
and reverent spirit. Verily, unto such a spirit it
is preying, and the work of a beast of prey.
As its holiest, it once loved " Thou-shalt " : now
is it forced to find illusion and arbitrariness even
in the holiest things, that it may capture free-
dom from its love : the lion is needed for this
capture.
But tell me, my brethren, what the child can do,
which even the lion could not do } Why hath the
preying lion still to become a child ?
Innocence is the child, and forgetfulness, a new
beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first
movement, a holy Yea.
Aye, for the game of creating, my brethren,
there is needed a holy Yea unto life : its own will,
willeth now the spirit ; his own world winneth the
world's outcast.
Three metamorphoses of the spirit have 1
designated to you : how the spirit became a
camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last a
child.—
Thus spake Zarathustra. And at that time he
abode in the town which is called The Pied Cow.
28 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
II.— THE ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF
VIRTUE.
People commended unto Zarathustra a wise man,
as one who could discourse well about sleep and
virtue : greatly was he honoured and rewarded for
it, and all the youths sat before his chair. To him
went Zarathustra, and sat among the youths before
his chair. And thus spake the wise man :
Respect and modesty in presence of sleep ! That
is the first thing ! And to go out of the way of all
who sleep badly and keep awake at night !
Modest is even the thief in presence of sleep : he
always stealeth softly through the night. Immodest,
however, is the night-watchman ; immodestly he
carrieth his horn.
No small art is it to sleep : it is necessary for that
purpose to keep awake all day.
Ten times a day must thou overcome thyself: that
causeth wholesome weariness, and is poppy to the
soul.
Ten times must thou reconcile again with thyself ;
for overcoming is bitterness, and badly sleep the
unreconciled.
Ten truths must thou find during the day ; other-
wise wilt thou seek truth during the night, and thy
soul will have been hungry.
Ten times must thou laugh during the day, and
be cheerful; otherwise thy stomach, the father of
affliction, will disturb thee in the night.
Few people know it, but one must have all the
virtues in order to sleep well. Shall I bear false
witness ? Shall I commit adultery ?
I
II. — THE ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF VIRTUE. 29
Shall I covet my neighbour's maidservant ? All
that would ill accord with good sleep.
And even if one have all the virtues, there is still
one thing needful : to send the virtues themselves
to sleep at the right time.
That they may not quarrel with one another, the
good females ! And about thee, thou unhappy one !
Peace with God and thy neighbour : so desireth
good sleep. And peace also with thy neighbour's
devil ! Otherwise it will haunt thee in the night.
Honour to the government, and obedience, and
also to the crooked government ! So desireth good
sleep. How can I help it, if power like to walk
on crooked legs?
He who leadeth his sheep to the greenest pasture,
shall always be for me the best shepherd : so doth
it accord with good sleep.
Many honours I want not, nor great treasures :
they excite the spleen. But it is bad sleeping
without a good name and a little treasure.
A small company is more welcome to me than a
bad one : but they must come and go at the right
time. So doth it accord with good sleep.
Well, also, do the poor in spirit please me : they
promote sleep. Blessed are they, especially if one
always give in to them.
Thus passeth the day unto the virtuous. When
night Cometh, then take I good care not to summon
sleep. It disliketh to be summoned — sleep, the
lord of the virtues !
But I think of what I have done and thought
during the day. Thus ruminating, patient as a cow,
I ask myself: What were thy ten overcomings?
30 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
And what were the ten reconciliations, and the
ten truths, and the ten laughters with which my
heart enjoyed itself?
Thus pondering, and cradled by forty thoughts,
it overtaketh me all at once — sleep, the unsum-
moned, the lord of the virtues.
Sleep tappeth on mine eye, and it turneth heavy.
Sleep toucheth my mouth, and it remaineth open.
Verily, on soft soles doth it come to me, the
dearest of thieves, and stealeth from me my
thoughts : stupid do I then stand, like this
academic chair.
But not much longer do I then stand : I already
lie.—
When Zarathustra heard the wise man thus
speak, he laughed in his heart : for thereby had a
light dawned upon him. And thus spake he to his
heart :
A fool seemeth this wise man with his forty
thoughts : but I believe he knoweth well how to
sleep.
Happy even is he who liveth near this wise
man! Such sleep is contagious — even through a
thick wall it is contagious.
A magic resideth even in his academic chair.
And not in vain did the youths sit before the
preacher of virtue.
His wisdom is to keep awake in order to
sleep well. And verily, if life had no sense,
and had I to choose nonsense, this would be the
desirablest nonsense for me also.
Now know I well what people sought formerly
above all else when they sought teachers of virtue.
n.— THE ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF VIRTUE. 3 1
Good sleep they sought for themselves, and poppy-
head virtues to promote it !
To all those belauded sages of the academic
chairs, wisdom was sleep without dreams : they
knew no higher significance of life.
Even at present, to be sure, there are some like
this preacher of virtue, and not always so honour-
able : but their time is past. And not much longer
do they stand : there they already lie.
Blessed are those drowsy ones : for they shall
soon nod to sleep. — ^
Thus spake Zarathustra.
III.— BACKWORLDSMEN.
Once on a time, Zarathustra also cast his fancy
beyond man, like all backworldsmen. The work
of a suffering and tortured God, did the world then
seem to me.
The dream — and diction — of a God, did the world
then seem to me ; coloured vapours before the eyes
of a divinely dissatisfied one.
Good and evil, and joy and woe, and I and thou —
coloured vapours did they seem to me before crea-
tive eyes. The creator wished to look away from
himself, — thereupon he created the world.
Intoxicating joy is it for the sufferer to look
away from his suffering and forget himself In-
toxicating joy and self-forgetting, did the world
once seem to me.
This world, the eternally imperfect, an eternal
32 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
contradiction's image and imperfect image — an
intoxicating joy to its imperfect creator : — thus did
the world once seem to me.
Thus, once on a time, did I also cast my fancy
beyond man, like all backworldsmen. Beyond
man, forsooth ?
Ah, ye brethren, that God whom I created was
human work and human madness, like all the
Gods!
A man was he, and only a poor fragment of a
man and ego. Out of mine own ashes and glow it
came unto me, that phantom. And verily, it came
not unto me from the beyond !
What happened, my brethren? I surpassed
myself, the suffering one; I carried mine own ashes
to the mountain ; a brighter flame I contrived for
myself. And lo! Thereupon the phantom with-
drew from me !
To me the convalescent would it now be suffer-
ing and torment to believe in such phantoms :
suffering would it now be to me, and humiliation.
Thus speak I to backworldsmen.
Suffering was it, and impotence — that created all
backworlds ; and the short madness of happiness,
which only the greatest sufferer experienceth.
Weariness, which seeketh to get to the ultimate
with one leap, with a death-leap ; a poor ignorant
weariness, unwilling even to will any longer : that
created all Gods and backworlds.
Believe me, my brethren ! It was the body
which despaired of the body — it groped with the
fingers of the infatuated spirit at the ultimate walls.
Believe me, my brethren ! It was the body which
III.— BACKWORLDSMEN. 33
despaired of the earth — it heard the bowels of
existence speaking unto it.
And then it sought to get through the ultimate
walls with its head — and not with its head only —
into " the other world."
But that " other world " is well concealed from
man, that dehumanised, inhuman world, which is
a celestial naught ; and the bowels of existence
do not speak unto man, except as man.
Verily, it is difficult to prove all being, and hard
to make it speak. Tell me, ye brethren, is not
the strangest of all things best proved ?
Yea, this ego, with its contradiction and per-
plexity, speaketh most uprightly of its being — this
creating, willing, evaluing ego, which is the measure
and value of things.
And this most upright existence, the ego — it
speaketh of the body, and still implieth the body,
even when it museth and raveth and fluttereth with
broken wings.
Always more uprightly learneth it to speak, the
ego ; and the more it learneth, the more doth it find
titles and honours for the body and the earth.
A new pride taught me mine ego, and that teach
I unto men : no longer to thrust one's head into the
sand of celestial things, but to carry it freely, a
terrestrial head, which givcth meaning to the
earth !
A new will teach I unto men : to choose that
path which man hath followed blindly, and to
approve of it — and no longer to slink aside from
it, like the sick and perishing !
The sick and perishing — it was they who despised
C
34 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
the body and the earth, and invented the heavenly
world, and the redeeming blood-drops ; but even
those sweet and sad poisons they borrowed from
the body and the earth !
From their misery they sought escape, and the
stars were too remote for them. Then they sighed ;
"O that there were heavenly paths by which to
steal into another existence and into happiness ! "
Then they contrived for themselves their by-paths
and bloody draughts !
Beyond the sphere of their body and this earth
they now fancied themselves transported, these
ungrateful ones. But to what did they owe the
convulsion and rapture of their transport? To
their body and this earth.
Gentle is Zarathustra to the sickly. Verily, he
is not indignant at their modes of consolation
and ingratitude. May they become convalescents
and overcomers, and create higher bodies for
themselves !
Neither is Zarathustra indignant at a convalescent
who looketh tenderly on his delusions, and at mid-
night stealeth round the grave of his God ; but
sickness and a sick frame remain even in his
tears.
Many sickly ones have there always been among
those who muse, and languish for God ; violently
they hate the discerning ones, and the latest of
virtues, which is uprightness.
Backward they always gaze toward dark ages :
then, iTideed, were delusion and faith something
different. Raving of the reason was likeness to
God, and doubt was sin.
III.—BACKWORLDSMEN. 35
Too well do I know those godlike ones : they
insist on being believed in, and that doubt is sin.
Too well, also, do I know what they themselves
most believe in.
Verily, not in backworlds and redeeming blood-
drops : but in the body do they also believe most ;
and their own body is for them the thing-in-itself.
But it is a sickly thing to them, and gladly would
they get out of their skin. Therefore hearken they
to the preachers of death, and themselves preach
backworlds.
Hearken rather, my brethren, to the voice of the
healthy body ; it is a more upright and pure
voice.
More uprightly and purely speaketh the healthy
body, perfect and square-built ; and it speaketh of
the meaning of the earth. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
IV.— THE DESPISERS OF THE BODY.
To the despisers of the body will I speak my
word. I wish them neither to learn afresh, nor
teach anew, but only to bid farewell to their own
bodies, — and thus be dumb.
" Body am I, and soul " — so saith the child. And
why should one not speak like children ?
But the awakened one, the knowing one, saith :
" Body am I entirely, and nothing more ; and soul
is only the name of something in the body."
The body is a big sagacity, a plurality with one
sense, a war and a peace, a flock and a shepherd.
36 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
An instrument of thy body is also thy little
sagacity, my brother, which thou callest " spirit " —
a little instrument and plaything of thy big
sagacity.
" Ego," sayest thou, and art proud of that word.
But the greatcL^hing-— in which thou art unwilling
to beTieve— is thy body with its big sagacity ; it
saith not "ego," but doeth it. ~*
What the sense feeleth, what the spirit discerneth,
hath never its end in itself. But sense and spirit
would fain persuade thee that they are the end of
all things : so vain are they.
Instruments and playthings are sense and spirit :
behind them there is still the Self. The Self seeketh
with the eyes of the senses, it hearkeneth also with
the ears of the spirit.
Ever hearkeneth the Self, and seeketh ; it com-
pareth, mastereth, conquereth, and destroyeth. It
ruleth, and is also the ego's ruler.
Behind thy thoughts and feelings, my brother,
there is a mighty lord, an unknown sage — it is
called Self; it dwelleth in thy"t5Udy, If is thy
body.
[ There is more sagacity in thy body than in thy
best wisdom. And who then knoweth why thy
body requireth just thy best wisdom ?
i Thy Self laugheth at thine ego, and its proud
I prancings. " What are these prancings and flights
' of thought unto me ? " it saith to itself. " A by-way
to my purpose. I am the leading-string of the ego,
and the prompter of its notions."
The Self saith unto the ego : " Feel pain ! " And
thereupon it suffereth, and thinketh how it may
IV. — THE r)ESPISERS OF THE BODY. 37
put an end thereto — and for that very purpose it is
meant to think.
The Self saith untojhe^go: "Feel pleasure ! "
Thereupon it rejoiceth, and thinketh how it may
ofttimes rejoice-^^^and f6f ffiaf^vefy^purposer it is
meant to think.
To the despisers of the body will I speak a word.
That they despise is caused by their esteem.
What is it that created esteeming and despising
and worth and will ?
The creating Self created for itself esteeming and
despising, it created for itself joy and woe. The
creating body created for itself spirit, as a hand to
its will.
Even in your folly and despising ye each serve
your Self, ye despisers of the body. I tell you, your
very Self wanteth to die, and turneth away from
life.
No longer can your Self do that which it desireth
most : — create beyond itself That is what it
desireth most ; that is all its fervour.
But it is now too late to do so : — so your Self
wisheth to succumb, ye despisers of the body.
To succumb — so wisheth your Self; and there-
fore have ye become despisers of the body, For
ye can no longer create beyond yourselves.
And therefore are ye now angry with life and
with the earth. And unconscious envy is in the
sidelong look of your contempt.
I go not your way, ye^jdesp»«ci:5._of_the body!
Ye are no bridges for me to the SupermanT^
Thus spake Zarathustra.
38 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
v.— JOYS AND PASSIONS.
My brother, when thou hast a virtue, and it is
thine own virtue, thou hast it in conmmon with
no one.
To be sure, thou wouldst call it by name and
caress it ; thou wouldst pull its ears and amuse thy-
self with it.
And lo ! Then hast thou its name in common
with the people, and hast become one of the people
and the herd with thy virtue !
Better for thee to say : " Ineffable is it, and
nameless, that which is pain and sweetness to my
soul, and also the hunger of my bowels."
Let thy virtue be too high for the familiarity of
names, and if thou must speak of it, be not ashamed
to stammer about it.
Thus speak and stammer: "That is my good,
that do I love, thus doth it please me entirely, thus
only do / desire the good.
Not as the law of a God do I desire it, not as a
human law or a human need do I desire it ; it is
not to be a guide-post for me to superearths and
paradises.
An earthly virtue is it which I love : little pru-
dence is therein, and the least everyday wisdom.
But that bird built its nest beside me : therefore,
I love and cherish it — now sitteth it beside me on
its golden eggs."
Thus shouldst thou stammer, and praise thy
virtue.
Once hadst thou passions and calledst them evil.
v.— JOYS AND PASSIONS. 39
But now hast thou only thy virtues : they grew out
of thy passions.
Thou implantedst thy highest aim into the heart
of those passions : then became they thy virtues
and joys.
And though thou wert of the race of the hot-
tempered, or of the voluptuous, or of the fanatical,
or the vindictive ;
All thy passions in the end became virtues, and
all thy devils angels.
Once hadst thou wild dogs in thy cellar: but
they changed at last into birds and charming song-
stresses.
Out of thy poisons brewedst thou balsam for
thyself; thy cow, affliction, milkedst thou— now
drinketh thou the sweet milk of her udder.
And nothing evil groweth in thee any longer,
unless it be the evil that groweth out of the conflict
of thy virtues.
My brother, if thou be fortunate, then wilt thou
have one virtue and no more: thus goest thou
easier over the bridge.
- Illustrious is it to have many virtues, but a hard
lot ; and many a one hath gone into the wilderness
and killed himself, because he was weary of being
the battle and battlefield of virtues.
My brother, are war and battle evil ? Necessary,
nowever, is the evil ; necessary are the envy and
the distrust and the backbiting among the virtues.
Lo ! how each of thy virtues is covetous of the
highest place ; it wanteth thy whole spirit to be its
herald, it wanteth thy whole power, in wrath, hatred,
and love.
40 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Jealous is every virtue of the others, and a
dreadful thing is jealousy. Even virtues may suc-
cumb by jealousy.
He whom the flame of jealousy encompasseth,
turneth at last, like the scorpion, the poisoned sting
against himself.
Ah ! my brother, hast thou never seen a virtue
backbite and stab itself?
Man I's srm^thing thnt hnth to hr surpassed i and
therefore shalt thou love thy virtues, — for thou wilt
succumb by them. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
VI.— THE PALE CRIMINAL.
Ye do not mean to slay, ye judges and sacrificers,
until the animal hath bowed its head ? Lo ! the
pale criminal hath bowed his head : out of his eye
speaketh the great contempt.
" Mine ego is something which is to be surpassed :
mine ego is to me the great contempt of man":
so speaketh it out of that eye.
When he judged himself — that was his supreme
moment ; let not the exalted one relapse again into
his low estate !
There is no salvation for him who thus suffereth
from himself, unless it be speedy death.
Your slaying, ye judges, shall be pity, and not
revenge; and in that ye slay, see to it that ye
yourselves justify life !
It is not enough that ye should reconcile with
him whom ye slay. Let your sorrow be love
VI.— THE PALE CRIMINAL. 4!
to the Superman : thus will ye justify your own
survival !
" Enemy " shall ye say but not " villain," " invalid "
shall ye say but not " wretch," " fool " shall ye say
but not " sinner."
And thou, red judge, if thou would say audibly
all thou hast done in thought, then would every
one cry : " Away with the nastiness and the virulent
reptile ! "
But one thing is the thought, another thing is
the deed, and another thing is the idea of the deed.
The wheel of causality doth not roll between them.
An idea made this pale man pale. Adequate
was he for his deed when he did it, but the idea of
it, he could not endure when it was done.
Evermore did he now see himself as the doer of
one deed. Madness, I call this: the exception
reversed itself to the rule in him.
The streak of chalk bewitcheth the hen ; the
stroke. he struck bewitched his weak reason. Mad-
ness after the deed, I call this.
Hearken, ye judges ! There is another madness
besides, and it is before the deed. Ah ! ye have
not gone deep enough into this soul !
Thus speaketh the red judge; "Why did this
criminal commit murder? He meant to rob."
I tell you, however, that his soul wanted blood, not
booty : he thirsted for the happiness of the knife !
But his weak reason understood not this madness,
and it persuaded him. " What matter about blood ! "
it said ; " wishest thou not, at least, to make booty
thereby ? Or take revenge ? "
And he hearkened unto his weak reason : like
42 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
lead lay its words upon him — thereupon he robbed
when he murdered. He did not mean to be
ashamed of his madness.
And now once more lieth the lead of his guilt
upon him, and once more is his weak reason so
benumbed, so paralysed, and so dull.
Could he only shake his head, then would his
burden roll off; but who shaketh that head?
What is this man? A mass of diseases that
reach out into the world through the spirit ; there
they want to get their prey.
What is this man ? A coil of wild serpents that
are seldom at peace among themselves — so they go
forth apart and seek prey in the world.
Look at that poor body ! What it suffered and
craved, the poor soul interpreted to itself — it in-
terpreted it as murderous desire, and eagerness for
the happiness of the knife.
Him who now turneth sick, the evil overtaketh
which is now the evil : he seeketh to cause pain
with that which causeth him pain. But there have
been other ages, and another evil and good.
Once was doubt evil, and the will to Self. Then
the invalid became a heretic or sorcerer ; as heretic
or sorcerer he suffered, and sought to cause
suffering.
But this will not enter your ears ; it hurteth your
good people, ye tell me. But what doth it matter
to me about your good people !
Many things in your good people cause me
disgust, and verily, not their evil. I would that
they had a madness by which they succumbed, like
this pale criminal )
VI.— THK PALE CRIMINAL. 43
Verily, I would that their madness were called
truth, or fidelity, or justice : but they have their
virtue in order to live long, and in wretched self-
complacency.
I am a railing alongside the torrent ; whoever is
able to grasp me may grasp me 1 Your crutch,
however, I am not. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
VII.— READING AND WRITING.
Of all that is written, I love only what a person
hath written with his blood. Write with blood,
and thou wilt find that blood is spirit.
It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood ;
I hate the reading idlers.
He who knoweth the reader, doeth nothing more
for the reader. Another century of readers — and
spirit itself will stink.
Every one being allowed to learn to read,
ruineth in the long run not only writing but also
thinking.
Once spirit was God, then it became man, and
now it even becomcth populace.
He that writeth in blood and proverbs doth not
want to be read, but learnt by heart.
In the mountains the shortest way is from peak
to peak, but for that route thou must have long
legs. Proverbs should be peaks, and those spoken
to should be big and tall.
The atmospiicre rare and pure, danger near and
44 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 1.
the Spirit full of a joyful wickedness : thus are things
well matched.
I want to have goblins about me, for I am
courageous. The courage which scareth away
ghosts, crcateth for itself goblins — it wanteth to
laugh.
I no longer feel in common with you ; the very
cloud which I see beneath me, the blackness and
heaviness at which I laugh — that is your thunder-
cloud.
Ye look aloft when ye long for exaltation ; and I
look downward because I am exalted.
Who among you can at the same time laugh and
be exalted ?
He who climbeth on the highest mountains,
laugheth at all tragic plays and tragic realities.
Courageous, unconcerned, scornful, coercive — so
wisdom wisheth us ; she is a woman, and ever
loveth only a warrior.
Ye tell me, " Life is hard to bear." But for what
purpose should ye have your pride in the morning
and your resignation in the evening ?
Life is hard to bear : but do not affect to be so
delicate ! We are all of us fine sumpter asses and
assesses.
What have we in common with the rose-bud,
which trembleth because a drop of dew hath formed
upon it?
It is true we love life ; not because we are wont
to live, but because we are wont to love.
There is always some madness in love. But
there is always, also, some method in madness.
And to me also, who appreciate life, the butter-
VII.— READING AND WRITING. 45
flies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them
amongst us, seem most to enjoy happiness.
To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little
sprites flit about — that moveth Zarathustra to tears
and songs.
I should only believe in a God that would know
how to dance.
And when I saw my devil, I found him serious,
thorough, profound, solemn : he was the spirit of
gravity — through him all things fall.
Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we slay.
Come, let us slay the spirit of gravity !
I learned to walk ; since then have I let myself
run. I learned to fly ; since then I do not need
pushing in order to move from a spot.
Now am I light, now do I fly ; now do I see
myself under myself. Now there danceth a God
in me. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
VIII.— THE TREE ON THE HILL.
Zarathustra's eye had perceived that a certain
youth avoided him. And as he walked alone one
evening over the hills surrounding the town called
" The Pied Cow," behold, there found he the youth
sitting leaning against a tree, and gazing with
wearied look into the valley. Zarathustra there-
upon laid hold of the tree beside which the youth
sat, and spake thus :
" If I wished to shake this tree with my hands,
I should not be able to do so.
46 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
But the wind, which we see not, troubleth and
bendeth it as it listeth. We are sorest bent and
troubled by invisible hands."
Thereupon the youth arose disconcerted, and
said : " I hear Zarathustra, and just now was I
thinking of him ! " Zarathustra answered :
"Why art thou frightened on that account? —
But it is the same with man as with the tree.
The more he seeketh to rise into the height and
light, the more vigorously do his roots struggle
earthward, downward, into the dark and deep — into
the evil."
" Yea, into the evil ! " cried the youth. " How is
it possible that thou hast discovered my soul ? "
Zarathustra smiled, and said : " Many a soul one
will never discover, unless one first invent it."
" Yea, into the evil ! " cried the youth once more.
"Thou saidst the truth, Zarathustra. I trust
myself no longer since I sought to rise into the
height, and nobody trusteth me any longer ; how
doth that happen ?
I change too quickly : my to-day refuteth my
yesterday. I often overleap the steps when I
clamber ; for so doing, none of the steps pardon me.
When aloft, I find myself always alone. No one
speaketh unto me ; the frost of solitude maketh me
tremble. What do I seek on the height ?
My contempt and my longing increase together ;
the higher I clamber, the more do I despise him
who clambereth. What doth he seek on the
height ?
How ashamed I am of my clambering and
stumbling ! How I mock at my violent panting !
VIII. — THE TREE ON THE HILL. 47
How I hate him who flieth ! How tired I am on
the height ! "
Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra
contemplated the tree beside which they stood,
and spake thus :
" This tree standeth lonely here on the hills ; it
hath grown up high above man and beast
And if it wanted to speak, it would have none
who could understand it : so high hath it grown^
Now it waiteth and waiteth, — for what doth it
wait? It dwelleth too close to the seat of the
clouds ; it waiteth perhaps for the first lightning ? "
When Zarathustra had said this, the youth called
out with violent gestures : " Yea, Zarathustra, thou
speakest the truth. My destruction I longed for,
when I desired to be on the height, and thou
art the lightning for which I waited ! Lo ! what
have I been since thou hast appeared amongst
us? It is mine envy of thee that hath destroyed
me!" — Thus spake the youth, and wept bitterly.
Zarathustra, however, put his arm about him, and
led the youth away with him.
And when they had walked a while together,
Zarathustra began to speak thus :
It rendeth my heart. Better than thy words
express it, thine eyes tell me all thy danger.
As yet thou art not free ; thou still seekest
freedom. Too unslept hath thy seeking made thee,
and too wakeful.
On the open height wouldst thou be ; for the
stars thirsteth thy soul. But thy bad impulses
also thirst for freedom.
Thy wild dogs want liberty ; they bark for joy
48 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
in their cellar when thy spirit endeavoureth to
open all prison doors.
Still art thou a prisoner — it seemeth to me — who
deviseth liberty for hinnself: ah! sharp becometh
the soul of such prisoners, but also deceitful and
wicked.
To purify himself, is still necessary for the freed-
man of the spirit. Much of the prison and the
mould still remaineth in him : pure hath his eye
still to .become.
Yea, I know thy danger. But by my love and
hope I conjure thee : cast not thy love and hope
away !
Noble thou feelest thyself still, and noble others
also feel thee still, though they bear thee a grudge
and cast evil looks. Know this, that to everybody
a noble one standeth in the way.
Also to the good, a noble one standeth in the
way : and even when they call him a good man,
they want thereby to put him aside.
The new, would the noble man create, and a
new virtue. The old, wanteth the good man, and
that the old should be conserved.
But it is not the danger of the noble man to
turn a good man, but lest he should become a
blusterer, a scoffer, or a destroyer.
Ah ! I have known noble ones who lost their
highest hope. And then they disparaged all high
hopes.
Then lived they shamelessly in temporary
pleasures, and beyond the day had hardly an
aim.
" Spirit is also voluptuousness," — said they. Then
VIII.— THE TREE ON THE HILL. 49
broke the wings of their spirit ; and now it creepeth
about, and defileth where it gnaweth.
Once they thought of becoming heroes ; but
sensualists are they now. A trouble and a terror
is the hero to them.
But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast
not away the hero in thy soul ! Maintain holy thy
highest hope ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
IX.— THE PREACHERS OF DEATH.
There are preachers of death : and the earth is
full of those to whom desistance from life must be
preached.
Full is the earth of the superfluous ; marred is
life by the many-too-many. May they be decoyed
out of this life by the " life eternal " !
" The yellow ones " : so are called the preachers
of death, or "the black ones." But I will show
them unto you in other colours besides.
There are the terrible ones who carry about in
themselves the beast of prey, and have no choice
except lusts or self-laceration. And even their
lusts are self-laceration.
They have not yet become men, those terrible
ones: may they preach desistance from life, and
pass away themselves !
There are the spiritually consumptive ones :
hardly are they born when they begin to die, and
long for doctrines of lassitude and renunciation.
They would fain be dead, and we should approve
D
50 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
of their wish ! Let us beware of awakening those
dead ones, and of damaging those living coffins !
They meet an invalid, or an old man, or a corpse
— and immediately they say : " Life is refuted ! "
But they only are refuted, and their eye, which
seeth only one aspect of existence.
Shrouded in thick melancholy, and eager for the
little casualties that bring death: thus do they
wait, and clench their teeth.
Or else, they grasp at sweetmeats, and mock at
their childishness thereby : they cling to their straw
of life, and mock at their still clinging to it.
Their wisdom speaketh thus : " A fool, he who
remaineth alive ; but so far are we fools ! And
that is the foolishest thing in life ! "
" Life is only suffering " : so say others, and lie
not. Then see to it that ye cease ! See to it that
the life ceaseth which is only suffering !
And let this be the teaching of your virtue:
"Thou shalt slay thyself! Thou shalt steal away
from thyself!"—
" Lust is sin," — so say some who preach death —
* let us go apart and beget no children ! "
"Giving birth is troublesome," — say others —
"why still give birth? One beareth only the un-
fortunate!" And they also are preachers of death.
" Pity is necessary," — so saith a third party.
" Take what I have ! Take what I am I So
much less doth life bind me ! "
Were they consistently pitiful, then would they
make their neighbours sick of life. To be wicked
— that would be their true goodness.
But they want to be rid of life ; what care they
IX. — THE PREACHERS OF DEATH. 5 1
if they bind others still faster with their chains
and gifts ! —
And ye also, to whom life is rough labour and
disquiet, are ye not very tired of life? Are ye not
very ripe for the sermon of death ?
All ye to whom rough labour is dear, and the
rapid, new, and strange — ye put up with yourselves
badly ; your diligence is flight, and the will to self-
forgetfulness.
If ye believed more in life, then would ye devote
yourselves less to the momentary. But for waiting,
ye have not enough of capacity in you — nor even
for idling !
Everywhere resoundeth the voice of those who
preach death ; and the earth is full of those to
whom death hath to be preached.
Or " life eternal " ; it is all the same to me — if
only they pass away quickly ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
X.— WAR AND WARRIORS.
By our best enemies we do not want to be spared,
nor by those either whom we love from the very
heart. So let me tell you the truth!
My brethren in war! I love you from the very
heart. I am, and was ever, your counterpart And
I am also your best enemy. So let me tell you the
truth !
I know the hatred and envy of your hearts. Ye
are not great enough not to know of hatred and
envy. Then be great enough not to be ashamed
of them I
52 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
And if ye cannot be saints of knowledge, then,
I pray you, be at least its warriors. They are the
companions and forerunners of such saintship.
I see many soldiers ; could I but see many
warriors ! " Uniform " one calleth what they wear ;
may it not be uniform what they therewith
hide!
Ye shall be those whose eyes ever seek for an
enemy — for your enemy. And with some of you
there is hatred at first sight.
Your enemy shall ye seek ; your war shall ye
wage, and for the sake of your thoughts! And
if your thoughts succumb, your uprightness shall
still shout triumph thereby !
Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars —
and the short peace more than the long.
You I advise not to work, but to fight. You I
advise not to peace, but to victory. Let your work
be a fight, let your peace be a victory !
One can only be silent and sit peacefully when
one hath arrow and bow; otherwise one prateth
and quarrelleth. Let your peace be a victory !
Ye say it is the good cause which halloweth even
war ? I say unto you : it is the good war which
halloweth every cause.
War and courage have done more great things
than charity. Not your sympathy, but your bravery
hath hitherto saved the victims.
" What is good ? " ye ask. To be brave is good.
Let the little girls say: "To be good is what is
pretty, and at the same time touching."
They call you heartless : but your heart is true,
and I love the bashfulness of your goodwill. Ye
X. — WAR AND WARRIORS. 53
are ashamed of your flow, and others are ashamed
of their ebb.
Ye are ugly ? Well then, my brethren, take the
sublime about you, the mantle of the ugly !
And when your soul becometh great, then doth
it become haughty, and in your sublimity there is
wickedness. I know you.
In wickedness the haughty man and the weakling
meet. But they misunderstand one another. I
know you.
Ye shall only have enemies to be hated, but not
enemies to be despised. Ye must be proud of your
enemies ; then, the successes of your enemies are
also your successes.
Resistance — that is the distinction of the slave.
Let your distinction be obedience. Let your com-
manding itself be obeying !
To the good warrior soundeth "thou shalt"
pleasanter than " I will." And all that is dear unto
you, ye shall first have it commanded unto you.
Let your love to life be love to your highest hope ;
and let your highest hope be the highest thought
of life !
Your highest thought, however, ye shall have it
commanded unto you by me — and it is this : man
is something that is to be surpassed.
So live your life of obedience and of war ! What
matter about long life ! What warrior wisheth to
be spared !
I spare you not, I love you from my very heart,
my brethren in war ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
54 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
XI.— THE NEW IDOL.
Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but
not with us, my brethren : here there are states.
A state ? What is that ? Well ! open now your
ears unto me, for now will I say unto you my word
concerning the death of peoples.
A state, is called the coldest of all cold monsters.
Coldly lieth it also ; and this lie creepeth from its
mouth : " I, the state, am the people."
It is a lie! Creators were they who created
peoples, and hung a faith and a love over them :
thus they served life.
Destroyers, are they who lay snares for many,
and call it the state : they hang a sword and a
hundred cravings over them.
Where there is still a people, there the state is
not understood, but hated as the evil eye, and as
sin against laws and customs.
This sign I give unto you : every people speaketh
its language of good and evil : this its neighbour
understandeth not. Its language hath it devised
for itself in laws and customs.
But the state lieth in all languages of good and
evil ; and whatever it saith it lieth ; and whatever
it hath it hath stolen.
False is everything in it ; with stolen teeth it
biteth, the biting one. False are even its bowels.
, Confusion of language of good and evil ; this
sign I give unto you as the sign ot the state. V"erily,
the will to death, indicateth this sign ! Verily, it
beckoneth unto the preachers of death !
XL— THE NEW IDOL. 55
Many too many are born : for the superfluous
ones was the state devised !
See just how it enticeth them to it, the many-too-
many ! How it swalloweth and cheweth and re-j
cheweth them !
" On earth there is nothing greater than I : it is
I who am the regulating finger of God" — thus
roareth the monster. And not only the long-eared
and short-sighted fall upon their knees !
Ah ! even in your ears, ye great souls, it
whispereth its gloomy lies ! Ah ! it findeth out
the rich hearts which willingly lavish themselves !
Yea, it findeth you out too, ye conquerors of the
old God ! Weary ye became of the conflict, and
now your weariness serveth the new idol !
Heroes and honourable ones, it would fain set up
around it, the new idol ! Gladly it basketh in the
sunshine of good consciences, — the cold monster !
Everything will it give yoUy if ye worship it, the
new idol : thus it purchaseth the lustre of your
virtue, and the glance of your proud eyes.
It seeketh to allure by means of you, the many-
too-many ! Yea, a hellish artifice hath here been
devised, a death-horse jingling with the trappings
of divine honours !
Yea, a dying for many hath here been devised,
which glorifieth itself as life : verily, a hearty
service unto all preachers of death !
The state, I call it, where all are poison-drinkers,
the good and the bad : the state, where all lose
themselves, the good and the bad : the state, where
the slow suicide of all — is called '* life."
Just see these superfluous ones ! They steal the
56 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
works of the inventors and the treasures of the
wise. Culture, they call their theft — and everything
becometh sickness and trouble unto them !
Just see these superfluous ones ! Sick are they
always ; they vomit their bile and call it a news-
paper. They devour one another, and cannot even
digest themselves.
Just see these superfluous ones! Wealth they
acquire and become poorer thereby. Power they
seek for, and above all, the lever of power, much
money — these impotent ones !
See them clamber, these nimble apes ! They
clamber over one another, and thus scuffle into the
mud and the abyss.
Towards the throne they all strive: it is their
madness — as if happiness sat on the throne ! Oft-
times sitteth filth on the throne, — and ofttimes also
the throne on filth.
Madmen they all seem to me, and clambering
apes, and too eager. Badly smelleth their idol to
me, the cold monster : badly they all smell to me,
these idolaters.
My brethren, will ye suffocate in the fumes of
their maws and appetites ! Better break the
windows and jump into the open air !
Do go out of the way of the bad odour ! With-
draw from the idolatry of the superfluous !
Do go out of the way of the bad odour ! With-
draw from the steam of these human sacrifices !
Open still remaineth the earth for great souls.
Empty are still many sites for lone ones and twain
ones, around which floateth the odour of tranquil
seas.
XI.— THE NEW IDOL. 57
Open still remaineth a free life for great souls.
Verily, he who possesseth little is so much the less
possessed : blessed be moderate poverty I
There, where the state ceaseth — there only com-
menceth the man who is not superfluous : there
commenceth the song of the necessary ones, the
single and irreplaceable melody.
There, where the state ceaseth — pray look thither,
my brethren I Do ye not see it, the rainbow and
the bridges of the Superman ? —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XII.— THE FLIES IN THE MARKET-
PLACE.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I see thee
deafened with the noise of the great men, and stung
all over with the stings of the little ones.
Admirably do forest and rock know how to be
silent with thee. Resemble again the tree which
thou lovest, the broad-branched one — silently and
attentively it o'erhangeth the sea.
Where solitude endeth, there beginneth the
market-place; and where the market-place begin-
neth, there beginneth also the noise of the great
actors, and the buzzing of the poison-flies.
In the world even the best things are worthless
without those who represent them : those repre-
senters, the people call great men.
Little do the people understand what is great —
that is to say, the creating agency. But they have a
taste for all representers and actors of great things.
S8 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, i.
Around the devisers of new values revolveth the
world : — invisibly it revolveth. But around the
actors revolve the people and the glory: such is
the course of things.
Spirit, hath the actor, but little conscience of the
spirit. He believeth always in that wherewith he
maketh believe most strongly — in himself !
To-morrow he hath a new belief, and the day
after, one still newer. Sharp perceptions hath he,
like the people, and changeable humours.
To upset — that meaneth with him to prove. To
drive mad — that meaneth with him to convince.
And blood is counted by him as the best of all
arguments.
A truth which only glideth into fine ears, he calleth
falsehood and trumpery. Verily, he believeth only
in Gods that make a great noise in the world !
Full of clattering buffoons is the market-place,
— and the people glory in their great men ! These
are for them the masters of the hour.
But the hour presseth them ; so they press thee.
And also from thee they want Yea or Nay. Alas !
thou wouldst set thy chair betwixt For and
Against ?
On account of those absolute and impatient ones,
be not jealous, thou lover of truth ! Never yet
did truth cling to the arm of an absolute one.
On account of those abrupt ones, return into thy
security : only in the market-place is one assailed
by Yea ? or Nay ?
Slow is the experience of all deep fountains :
long have they to wait until they know what hath
fallen into their depths.
XII.— THE FLIES IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 59
Away from the market-place and from fame
takcth place all that is great : away from the
market-place and from fame have ever dwelt the
devisers of new values.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude: I see thee
stung all over by the poisonous flies. Flee thither,
where a rough, strong breeze bloweth !
Flee into thy solitude ! Thou hast lived too
closely to the small and the pitiable. Flee from
their invisible vengeance ! Towards thee they have
nothing but vengeance.
Raise no longer an arm against them ! Innumer-
able are they, and it is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.
Innumerable are the small and pitiable ones;
and of many a proud structure, rain-drops and
weeds have been the ruin.
Thou art not stone ; but already hast thou
become hollow by the numerous drops. Thou wilt
yet break and burst by the numerous drops.
Exhausted I see thee, by poisonous flies ; bleed-
ing I see thee, and torn at a hundred spots ; and
thy pride will not even upbraid.
Blood they would have from thee in all innocence;
blood their bloodless souls crave for — and they
sting, therefore, in all innocence.
But thou, profound one, thou sufferest too pro-
foundly even from small wounds ; and ere thou
hadst recovered, the same poison-worm crawled
over thy hand.
Too proud art thou to kill these sweet-tooths.
But take care lest it be thy fate to suffer all their
poisonous injustice !
They buzz around thee also with their praise:
60 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
obtrusiveness, is their praise. They want to be
close to thy skin and thy blood.
They flatter thee, as one flattereth a God or devil ;
they whimper before thee, as before a God or devil.
What doth it come to! Flatterers are they, and
whimperers, and nothing more.
Often, also, do they show themselves to thee as
amiable ones. But that hath ever been the prudence
of the cowardly. Yea ! the cowardly are wise I
They think much about thee with their circum-
scribed souls — thou art always suspected by them !
Whatever is much thought about is at last thought
suspicious.
They punish thee for all thy virtues. They
pardon thee in their inmost hearts only — for thine
errors.
Because thou art gentle and of upright character,
thou sayest : " Blameless are they for their small
existence." But their circumscribed souls think:
" Blamable is all great existence."
Even when thou art gentle towards them, they
still feel themselves despised by thee; and they
repay thy beneficence with secret maleficence.
Thy silent pride is always counter to their taste ;
they rejoice if once thou be humble enough to be
frivolous.
What we recognise in a man, we also irritate in
him. Therefore be on your guard against the
small ones !
In thy presence they feel themselves small, and
their baseness gleameth and gloweth against thee
in invisible vengeance.
Sawest thou not how often they became dumb
XII.— THE FLIES IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 6l
when thou approachedst them, and how their energy
left them like the smoke of an extinguishing fire ?
Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art thou of
thy neighbours ; for they are unworthy of thee.
Therefore they hate thee, and would fain suck thy
blood.
Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies ;
what is great in thee — that itself must make them
more poisonous, and always more fly-like.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude — and thither,
where a rough strong breeze bloweth. It is not thy
lot to be a fly-flap. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XIII.— CHASTITY.
I love the forest. It is bad to live in cities :
there, there are too many of the lustful.
Is it not better to fall into the hands of a
murderer, than into the dreams of a lustful woman ?
And just look at these men : their eye saith it—
they know nothing better on earth than to lie with
a woman.
Filth is at the bottom o^ :heir souls ; and alas !
if their filth hath still spirit in it !
Would that ye were perfect — at least as animals !
But to animals belongeth innocence.
Do I counsel you to slay your instincts? I
counsel you to innocence in your instincts.
Do I counsel you to chastity? Chastity is a
virtue with some, but with many almost a vice.
These are continent, to be sure : but doggish lust
looketh enviously out of all that they do.
62 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Even into the heights of their virtue and into
their cold spirit doth this creature follow them,
with its discord.
And how nicely can doggish lust beg for a piece
of spirit, when a piece of flesh is denied it !
Ye love tragedies and all that breaketh the heart?
But I am distrustful of your doggish lust.
Ye have too cruel eyes, and ye look wantonly
towards the sufferers. Hath not your lust just
disguised itself and taken the name of fellow-
suffering?
And also this parable give I unto you : Not a
few who meant to cast out their devil, went thereby
into the swine themselves.
To whom chastity is difficult, it is to be dissuaded :
lest it become the road to hell — to filth and lust
of soul.
Do I speak of filthy things? That is not the
worst thing for me to do.
Not when the truth is filthy, but when it is
shallow, doth the discerning one go unwillingly
into its waters.
Verily, there are chaste ones from their very
nature ; they are gentler of heart, and laugh better
and oftener than you.
They laugh also at chastity, and ask : " What is
chastity ?
Is chastity not folly ? But the folly came unto
us, and not we unto it.
We offered that guest harbour and heart : now it
dwelleth with us — let it stay as long as it will ! " —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XIV.— THE FRIEND. 63
XIV— THE FRIEND.
"One, is always too many about me" — thinketh
the anchorite. " Always once one — that maketh
two in the long run ! "
I and me are always too earnestly in conversa-
tion : how could it be endured, if there were not a
friend ?
The friend of the anchorite is always the third
one : the third one is the cork which preventeth
the conversation of the two sinking into the depth.
Ah ! there are too many depths for all anchorites.
Therefore, do they long so much for a friend, and
for his elevation.
Our faith in others betrayeth wherein we would
fain have faith in ourselves. Our longing for a
friend is our betrayer.
And often with our love we want merely to
overleap envy. And often we attack and make
ourselves enemies, to conceal that we are vulnerable.
" Be at least mine enemy ! " — thus speaketh the
true reverence, which doth not venture to solicit
friendship.
If one would have a friend, then must one also
be willing to wage war for him : and in order to
wage war, one must be capable of being an enemy.
One ought still to honour the enemy in one's
friend. Canst thou go nigh unto thy friend, and
not go over to him ?
In one's friend one shall have one's best enemy.
Thou shalt be closest unto him with thy heart
when thou withstandest him.
($4 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Thou wouldst wear no raiment before thy friend ?
It is in honour of thy friend that thou showest
thyself to him as thou art ? But he wisheth thee
to the devil on that account !
He who maketh no secret of himself shocketh :
so much reason have ye to fear nakedness ! Aye,
if ye were Gods, ye could then be ashamed of
clothing !
Thou canst not adorn thyself fine enough for thy
friend ; for thou shalt be unto him an arrow and a
longing for the Superman.
Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep — to know
how he looketh ? What is usually the countenance
of thy friend ? It is thine own countenance, in a
coarse and imperfect mirror.
Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep ? Wert thou
not dismayed at thy friend looking so? O my
friend, man is something that hath to be surpassed.
In divining and keeping silence shall the friend
be a master: not everything must thou wish to
see. Thy dream shall disclose unto thee what thy
friend doeth when awake.
Let thy pity be a divining : to know first if thy
friend wanteth pity. Perhaps he loveth in thee the
unmoved eye, and the look of eternity.
Let thy pity for thy friend be hid under a hard
shell ; thou shalt bite out a tooth upon it. Thus
will it have delicacy and sweetness.
Art thou pure air and solitude and bread and
medicine to thy friend ? Many a one cannot loosen
his own fetters, but is nevertheless his friend's
emancipator.
Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be a
XIV.— THE FRIEND. 65
friend. Art thou a tyrant? Then thou canst not
have friends.
Far too long hath there been a slave and a tyrant
concealed in woman. On that account woman is not
yet capable of friendship : she knoweth only love.
In woman's love there is injustice and blindness
to all she doth not love. And even in woman's
conscious love, there is still always surprise and
lightning and night, along with the light
As yet woman is not capable of friendship:
women are still cats, and birds. Or at the best,
cows.
As yet woman is not capable of friendship.
But tell me, ye men, who of you are capable of
friendship ?
Oh ! your poverty, ye men, and your sordidness
of soul ! As much as ye give to your friend, will
I give even to my foe, and will not have become
poorer thereby.
There is comradeship: may there be friendship!
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XV.— THE THOUSAND AND ONE GOALS.
Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples :
thus he discovered the good and bad of many
peoples. No greater power did Zarathustra find
on earth than good and bad.
No people could live without first valuing ; if
a people will maintain itself, however, it must not
value as its neighbour valueth.
Much that passed for good with one people was
£
66 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
regarded with scorn and contempt by another:
thus I found it. Much found I here called bad,
which was there decked with purple honours.
Never did the one neighbour understand the
other : ever did his soul marvel at his neighbour's
delusion and wickedness.
A table of excellencies hangeth over every
people. Lo ! it is the table of their triumphs ; lo !
it is the voice of their Will to Power.
It is laudable, what they think hard ; what is
indispensable and hard they call good ; and what
relieveth in the direst distress, the unique and
hardest of all, — they extol as holy.
Whatever maketh them rule and conquer and
shine, to the dismay and envy of their neighbours,
they regard as the high and foremost thing, the
test and the meaning of all else.
Verily, my brother, if thou knewest but a people's
need, its land, its sky, and its neighbour, then
wouldst thou divine the law of its surmountings,
and why it climbeth up that ladder to its hope.
" Always shalt thou be the foremost and pro-
minent above others : no one shall thy jealous soul
love, except a friend " — that made the soul of a
Greek thrill : thereby went he his way to greatness.
"To speak truth, and be skilful with bow and
arrow" — so seemed it alike pleasing and hard
to the people from whom cometh my name — the
name which is alike pleasing and hard to me.
"To honour father and mother, and from the
root of the soul to do their will" — this table of
surmounting hung another people over them, and
became powerful and permanent thereby.
XV.— THE THOUSAND AND ONE GOALS. 6y
" To have fidelity, and for the sake of fidelity
to risk honour and blood, even in evil and
dangerous courses " — teaching itself so, another
people mastered itself, and thus mastering itself,
became pregnant and heavy with great hopes.
Verily, men have given unto themselves all
their good and bad. Verily, they took it not, they
found it not, it came not unto them as a voice from
heaven.
Values did man only assign to things in order
to maintain himself — he created only the signifi-
cance of things, a human significance ! Therefore,
calleth he himself "man," that is, the valuator.
Valuing is creating : hear it, ye creating ones !
Valuation itself is the treasure and jewel of the
valued things.
Through valuation only is there value ; and
without valuation the nut of existence would be
hollow. Hear it, ye creating ones !
Change of values — that is, change of the creating
ones. Always doth he destroy who hath to be a
creator.
Creating ones were first of all peoples, and only
in late times individuals ; verily, the individual
himself is still the latest creation.
Peoples once hung over them tables of the good.
Love which would rule and love which would obey,
created for themselves such tables.
Older is the pleasure in the herd than the
pleasure in the ego : and as long as the good
conscience is for the herd, the bad conscience only
saith : ego.
Verily, the crafty ego, the loveless one, that
68 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
seeketh its advantage in the advantage of many —
it is not the origin of the herd, but its ruin.
Loving ones, was it always, and creating ones,
that created good and bad. Fire of love gloweth
in the names of all the virtues, and fire of wrath.
Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples :
no greater power did Zarathustra find on earth
than the creations of the loving ones — " good " and
"bad"are they called.
Verily, a prodigy is this power of praising and
blaming. Tell me, ye brethren, who will master it
for me ? Who will put a fetter upon the thousand
necks of this animal ?
A thousand goals have there been hitherto, for
a thousand peoples have there been. Only the
fetter for the thousand necks is still lacking ; there
is lacking the one goal. As yet humanity hath
not a goal.
But pray tell me, my brethren, if the goal of
humanity be still lacking, is there not also still
lacking — humanity itself? —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XVL— NEIGHBOUR-LOVE.
Ye crowd around your neighbour, and have fine
words for it. But I say unto you : your neighbour-
love is your bad love of yourselves.
Ye flee unto your neighbour from yourselves, and
would fain make a virtue thereof: but I fathom
your " unselfishness."
The Thou is older than the /; the Thou hath
XVI.— NEIGHBOUR-LOVE. 69
been consecrated, but not yet the /.* so man
presseth nigh unto his neighbour.
Do I advise you to neighbour-love ? Rather do
I advise you to neighbour-flight and to furthest love!
Higher than love to your neighbour is love to
the furthest and future ones ; higher still than love
to men, is love to things and phantoms.
The phantom that runneth on before thee, ray
brother, is fairer than thou ; why dost thou not
give unto it thy flesh and thy bones? But thou
fearest, and runnest unto thy neighbour.
Ye cannot endure it with yourselves, and do not
love yourselves sufficiently : so ye seek to mislead
your neighbour into love, and would fain gild your-
selves with his error.
Would that ye could not endure it with any kind
of near ones, or their neighbours ; then would ye
have to create your friend and his overflowing
heart out of yourselves.
Ye call in a witness when ye want to speak well
of yourselves ; and when ye have misled him to
think well of you, ye also think well of yourselves.
Not only doth he lie, who speaketh contrary to
his knowledge, but more so, he who speaketh
contrary to his ignorance. And thus speak ye of
yourselves in your intercourse, and belie your
neighbour with yourselves.
Thus saith the fool : " Association with men spotl-
eth the character, especially when one hath none."
The one goeth to his neighbour because he
seeketh himself, and the other because he would fain
lose himself Your bad love to yourselves maketh
solitude a prison to you.
70 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
The furthest ones are they who pay for your love
to the near ones ; and when there are but five of
you together, a sixth must always die.
I love not your festivals either : too many actors
found I there, and even the spectators often
behaved like actors.
Not the neighbour do I teach you, but the friend.
Let the friend be the festival of the earth to you,
and a foretaste of the Superman.
I teach you the friend and his overflowing heart.
But one must know how to be a sponge, if one
would be loved by overflowing hearts.
I teach you the friend in whom the world standeth
complete, a capsule of the good, — the creating friend,
who hath always a complete world to bestow.
And as the world unrolled itself for him, so
rolleth it together again for him in rings, as the
growth of good through evil, as the growth of
purpose out of chance.
Let the future and the furthest be the motive of
thy to-day ; in thy friend shalt thou love the Super-
man as thy motive.
My brethren, I advise you not to neighbour-love
— I advise you to furthest love ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XVII.— THE WAY OF THE CREATING
ONE.
Wouldst thou go into isolation, my brother?
Wouldst thou seek the way unto thyself? Tarry
yet a little and hearken unto me.
XVII.— THE WAY OF THE CREATING ONE. /I
" He who seeketh may easily get lost himself.
All isolation is wrong " : so say the herd. And
long didst thou belong to the herd.
The voice of the herd will still echo in thee.
And when thou sayest, " I have no longer a con-
science in common with you," then will it be a
plaint and a pain.
Lo, that pain itself did the same conscience
produce ; and the last gleam of that conscience still
gloweth on thine affliction.
But thou wouldst go the way of thine affliction,
which is the way unto thyself? Then show me
thine authority and thy strength to do so !
Art thou a new strength and a new authority ?
A first motion ? A self-rolling wheel ? Canst thou
also compel stars to revolve around thee ?
Alas! there is so much lusting for loftiness!
There are so many convulsions of the ambitions !
Show me that thou art not a lusting and ambitious
one!
Alas ! there are so many great thoughts that do
nothing more than the bellows : they inflate, and
make emptier than ever.
Free, dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling thought
would I hear of, and not that thou hast escaped
from a yoke.
Art thou one entitled to escape from a yoke?
Many a one hath cast away his final worth when
he hath cast away his servitude.
Free from what? What doth that matter to
Zarathustra! Clearly, however, shall thine eye
show unto me : free/<?r what?
Canst thou give unto thyself thy bad and thy
72 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
good, and set up thy will as a law over thee?
Canst thou be judge for thyself, and avenger of thy
law?
Terrible is aloneness with the judge and avenger
of one's own law. Thus is a star projected into
desert space, and into the icy breath of aloneness.
To-day sufferest thou still from the multitude,
thou individual ; to-day hast thou still thy courage
unabated, and thy hopes.
But one day will the solitude weary thee ; one
day will thy pride yield, and thy courage quail.
Thou wilt one day cry : " I am alone ! "
One day wilt thou see no longer thy loftiness,
and see too closely thy lowliness; thy sublimity
itself will frighten thee as a phantom. Thou wilt
one day cry : " AH is false ! "
There are feelings which seek to slay the lonesome
one ; if they do not succeed, then must they them-
selves die! But art thou capable of it — to be a
murderer ?
Hast thou ever known, my brother, the word
"disdain"? And the anguish of thy justice in
being just to those that disdain thee ?
Thou forcest many to think differently about
thee; that, charge they heavily to thine account.
Thou camest nigh unto them, and yet wentest
past : for that they never forgive thee.
Thou goest beyond them : but the higher thou
risest, the smaller doth the eye of envy see thee.
Most of all, however, is the flying one hated.
" How could ye be just unto me ! "-—must thou
say — " I choose your injustice as my allotted
portion."
XVII.— THE WAY OF THE CREATING ONE. 73
Injustice and filth cast they at the lonesome
one : but, my brother, if thou wouldst be a star,
thou must shine for them none tlie less on that
account!
And be on thy guard against the good and just !
They would fain crucify those who devise their
own virtue— they hate the lonesome ones.
Be on thy guard, also, against holy simplicity !
All is unholy to it that is not simple ; fain, likewise,
would it play with the fire— of the fagot and stake.
And be on thy guard, also, against the assaults
of thy love ! Too readily doth the recluse reach
his hand to any one who meeteth him.
To many a one mayest thou not give thy
hand, but only thy paw ; and I wish thy paw also
to have claws.
But the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou
thyself always be; thou waylayest thyself in
caverns and forests.
Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to thy-
self! And past thyself and thy seven devils lead-
eth thy way !
A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard
and a sooth-sayer, and a fool, and a doubter, and
a reprobate, and a villain.
Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own
flame ; how couldst thou become new if thou have
not first become ashes !
Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the
creating one: a God wilt thou create for thyself
out of thy seven devils !
Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the
loving one : thou lovest thyself, and on that account
74 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
despisest thou thyself, as only the loving ones
despise.
To create, desireth the loving one, because he
despiseth! What knoweth he of love who hath
not been obliged to despise just what he loved !
With thy love, go into thine isolation, my brother,
and with thy creating; and late only will justice
limp after thee.
With my tears, go into thine isolation, my brother.
I love him who seeketh to create beyond himself,
and thus succumbeth. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XVIII.— OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN.
" Why stcalest thou along so furtively in the twi-
light, Zarathustra ? And what hidest thou so care-
fully under thy mantle ?
Is it a treasure that hath been given thee ? Or a
child that hath been born thee? Or goest thou
thyself on a thiefs errand, thou friend of the evil?" —
Verily, my brother, said Zarathustra, it is a
treasure that hath been given me: it is a little
truth which I carry.
But it is naughty, like a young child ; and if I
hold not its mouth, it screameth too loudly.
As I went on my way alone to-day, at the hour
when the sun declineth, there met me an old woman,
and she spake thus unto my soul :
" Much hath Zarathustra spoken also to us
women, but never spake he unto us concerning
XVIII.- OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN. 7$
And I answered her : " Concerning woman, one
should only talk unto men."
" Talk also unto me of woman," said she ; " I am
old enough to forget it presently."
And I obliged the old woman and spake thus
unto her :
Everything in woman is a riddle, and everything
in woman hath one solution — it is called pregnancy.
Man is for woman, a means : the purpose is always
the child. But what is woman for man ?
Two different things wanteth the true man:
danger and diversion. Therefore wanteth he
woman, as the most dangerous plaything.
Man shall be trained for war, and woman for the
recreation of the warrior : all else is folly.
Too sweet fruits — these the warrior liketh not.
Therefore liketh he woman ;— bitter is even the
sweetest woman.
Better than man doth woman understand children,
but man is more childish than ^omarr:
*" TiTthe true man there is a child hidden : it
wanteth to play. Up then, ye women, and discover
the child in man !
A plaything let woman be, pure and fine like the
precious stone, illumined with the virtues of a
world not yet come.
Let the beam of a star shine in your love ! Let
your hope say : " May I bear the Superman ! "
In your love let there be valour! With your
love shall ye assail him who inspireth you with
fear!
In your love be your honour! Little doth
woman understand otherwise about honour. But
76 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
let this be your honour : always to love more than
ye are loved, and never be the second.
Let man fear woman when she loveth : then
maketh she every sacrifice, and everything else she
regardeth as worthless.
Let man fear woman when she hateth : for man in
his innermost soul is merely evil ; woman, however,
is mean.
Whom hateth woman most? — Thus spake the
iron to the loadstone : " I hate thee most, because
thou attractest, but art too weak to draw unto
thee."
The happiness of man is, " I will." The happi-
ness of woman is, " He will."
" Lo ! now hath the world become perfect ! " —
thus thinketh every woman when she obeyeth with
all her love.
Obey, must the woman, and find a depth for her
surface. Surface, is woman's soul, a mobile, stormy
film on shallow water.
Man's soul, however, is deep, its current gusheth
in subterranean caverns : woman surmiseth its
force, but comprehendeth it not. —
Then answered me the old woman : " Many fine
things hath Zarathustra said, especially for those
who are young enough for them.
Strange ! Zarathustra knoweth little about
woman, and yet he is right about them ! Doth this
happen, because with women nothing is impossible ?
And now accept a little truth by way of thanks 1
I am old enough for it !
Swaddle it up and hold its mouth : otherwise it
will scream too loudly, the little truth."
XVIII. — OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN. 77
" Give me, woman, thy little truth ! " said I. And
thus spake the old woman :
" Thou goest to women ? Do not forget thy
whip!"—
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XIX.— THE BITE OF THE ADDER.
One day had Zarathustra fallen asleep under a
fig-tree, owing to the heat, with his arms over his
face. And there came an adder and bit him in
the neck, so that Zarathustra screamed with pain.
When he had taken his arm from his face he
looked at the serpent ; and then did it recognise
the eyes of Zarathustra, wriggled awkwardly, and
tried to get away. " Not at all," said Zarathustra,
" as yet hast thou not received my thanks ! Thou
hast awakened me in time ; my journey is yet
long." "Thy journey is short," said the adder,
sadly; "my poison is fatal." Zarathustra smiled.
"When did ever a dragon die of a serpent's poison?"
— said he. "But take thy poison back! Thou art
not rich enough to present it to me." Then fell
the adder again on his neck, and licked his
wound.
When Zarathustra once told this to his disciples
they asked him : "And what, O Zarathustra, is the
moral of thy story ? " And Zarathustra answered
them thus:
The destroyer of morality, the good and just call
mc: my story is immoral.
78 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 1.
When, however, ye have an enemy, then return
him not good for evil : for that would abash him.
But prove that he hath done something good to you.
And rather be angry than abash any one ! And
when ye are cursed, it pleaseth me not that ye
should then desire to bless. Rather curse a little
also!
And should a great injustice befall you, then
do quickly five small ones besides. Hideous to
behold is he on whom injustice presseth alone.
Did ye ever know this? Shared injustice is
half justice. And he who can bear it, shall take
the injustice upon himself!
A small revenge is humaner than no revenge
at all. And if the punishment be not also a right
and an honour to the transgressor, I do not like
your punishing.
Nobler is it to own oneself in the wrong than
to establish one's right, especially if one be in
the right. Only, one must be rich enough to do so,
I do not like your cold justice ; out of the eye
of your judges there always glanceth the execu-
tioner and his cold steel.
Tell me: where find we justice, which is love
with seeing eyes ?
Devise me, then, the love which not only beareth
all punishment, but also all guilt !
Devise me, then, the justice which acquitteth
every one, except the judge !
And would ye hear this likewise ? To him who
seeketh to be just from the heart, even the lie
becometh philanthropy.
But how could I be just from the heart 1 How
XIX.— THE BITE OF THE ADDER. 79
can I give every one his own ! Let this be enough
for me : I give unto every one mine own.
Finally, my brethren, guard against doing wrong
to any anchorite. How could an anchorite forget !
How could he requite !
Like a deep well is an anchorite. Easy is it to
throw in a stone : if it should sink to the bottom,
however, tell me, who will bring it out again ?
Guard against injuring the anchorite! If ye
have done so, however, well then, kill him also I—
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XX.— CHILD AND MARRIAGE.
I have a question for thee alone, my brother:
like a sounding-lead, cast I this question into thy
soul, that I may know its depth.
Thou art young, and desirest child and marriage.
But I ask thee : Art thou a man entitled to desire
a child ?
Art thou the victorious one, the self-conqueror,
the ruler of thy passions, the master of thy virtues ?
Thus do I ask thee.
Or doth the animal speak in thy wish, and
necessity ? Or isolation ? Or discord in thee ?
I would have thy victory and freedom long for
a child. Living monuments shalt thou build to thy
victory and emancipation.
Beyond thyself shalt thou build. But first of
all must thou be built thyself, rectangular in body
and soul.
80 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Not only onward shalt thou propagate thyself,
but upward ! For that purpose may the garden of
marriage help thee !
A higher body shalt thou create, a first move-
ment, a spontaneously rolling wheel — a creating
one shalt thou create.
Marriage : so call I the will of the twain to create
the one that is more than those who created it.
The reverence for one another, as those exercising
such a will, call I marriage.
Let this be the significance and the truth of thy
marriage. But that which the many-too-many call
marriage, those superfluous ones — ah, what shall I
call it ?
Ah, the poverty of soul in the twain ! Ah, the
filth of soul in the twain ! Ah, the pitiable self-
complacency in the twain !
Marriage they call it all ; and they say their
marriages are made in heaven.
Well, I do not like it, that heaven of the super-
fluous! No, I do not like them, those animals
tangled in the heavenly toils !
Far from me also be the God who limpeth thither
to bless what he hath not matched !
Laugh not at such marriages ! What child hath
not had reason to weep over its parents ?
Worthy did this man seem, and ripe for the
meaning of the earth : but when I saw his wife, the
earth seemed to me a home for madcaps.
Yea, I would that the earth shook with convul-
sions when a saint and a goose mate with one
another.
This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero,
XX.— CHILD AND MARRIAGE. 8l
and at last got for himself a small decked-up He :
his marriage he calleth it.
That one was reserved in intercourse and chose
choicely. But one time he spoilt his company for
all time : his marriage he calleth it.
Another sought a handmaid with the virtues of
an angel. But all at once he became the handmaid
of a woman, and now would he need also to become
an angel.
Careful, have I found all buyers, and all of them
have astute eyes. But even the astutest of them
buyeth his wife in a sack.
Many short follies — that is called love by you.
And your marriage putteth an end to many short
follies, with one long stupidity.
Your love to woman, and woman's love to man —
ah, would that it were sympathy for suffering and
veiled deities! But generally two animals light
on one another.
But even your best love is only an enraptured
simile and a painful ardour. It is a torch to
light you to loftier paths.
Beyond yourselves shall ye love some dayl
Then learn first of all to love. And on that account
ye had to drink the bitter cup of your love.
Bitterness is in the cup even of the best love :
thus doth it cause longing for the Superman ; thus
doth it cause thirst in thee, the creating one !
Thirst in the creating one, arrow and longing
for the Superman : tell me, my brother, is this
thy will to marriage ?
Holy call I such a will, and such a marriage. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
F
82 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, L
XXL— VOLUNTARY DEATH.
Many die too late, and some die too early. Yet
strange soundeth the precept : " Die at the right
time!"
Die at the right time : so teacheth Zarathustra.
To be sure, he who never liveth at the right time,
how could he ever die at the right time ? Would
that he might never be born ! — Thus do I advise
the superfluous ones.
But even the superfluous ones make much ado
about their death, and even the hollowest nut
wanteth to be cracked.
Every one regardeth dying as a great matter :
but as yet death is not a festival. Not yet have
people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals.
The consummating death I show unto you,
which becometh a stimulus and promise to the
living.
His death, dieth the consummating one triumph-
antly, surrounded by hoping and promising ones.
Thus should one learn to die ; and there should
be no festival at which such a dying one doth not
consecrate the oaths of the living !
Thus to die is best ; the next best, however, is
to die in battle, and sacrifice a great soul.
But to the fighter equally hateful as to the
victor, is your grinning death which stealeth nigh
like a thief, — and yet cometh as master.
My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary
death, which cometh unto me because / want it.
And when shall I want it?— He that hath a
XXI. — VOLUNTARY DEATH. 83
goal and an heir, wanteth death at the right time
for the goal and the heir.
And out of reverence for the goal and the heir,
he will hang up no more withered wreaths in the
sanctuary of life.
Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble:
they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever
backward.
Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths
and triumphs; a toothless mouth hath no longer
the right to every truth.
And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take
leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult
art of— going at the right time.
One must discontinue being feasted upon when
one tasteth best: that is known by those who
want to be long loved.
Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is
to wait until the last day of autumn : and at the
same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.
In some ageth the heart first, and in others the
spirit. And some are hoary in youth, but the
late young keep long young.
To many men life is a failure ; a poison-worm
gnaweth at their heart. Then let them see to it
that their dying is all the more a success.
Many never become sweet ; they rot even in the
summer. It is cowardice that holdeth them fast
to their branches.
Far too many live, and far too long hang they
on their branches. Would that a storm came and
shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from
the tree 1
84 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Would that there came preachers of speedy
death! Those would be the appropriate storms
and agitators of the trees of life ! But I hear only
slow death preached, and patience with all that
is "earthly."
Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly?
This earthly is it that hath too much patience with
you, ye blasphemers !
Verily, too early died that Hebrew whom the
preachers of slow death honour : and to many
hath it proved a calamity that he died too early.
As yet had he known only tears, and the
melancholy of the Hebrews, together with the
hatred of the good and just — the Hebrew Jesus :
then was he seized with the longing for death.
Had he but remained in the wilderness, and far
from the good and just ! Then, perhaps, would
he have learned to live, and love the earth — and
laughter also !
Believe it, my brethren ! He died too early ; he
himself would have disavowed his doctrine had he
attained to my age ! Noble enough was he to
disavow !
But he was still immature. Immaturely loveth
the youth, and immaturely also hateth he man
and earth. Confined and awkward are still his
soul and the wings of his spirit.
But in man there is more of the child than in
the youth, and less of melancholy : better under-
standeth he about life and death.
Free for death, and free in death ; a holy Nay-
sayer, when there is no longer time for Yea : thus
understandeth he about death and life.
XXI.— VOLUNTARY DEATH. 85
That your dying may not be a reproach to
man and the earth, my friends : that do I solicit
from the honey of your soul.
In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still
shine like an evening after-glow around the earth :
otherwise your dying hath been unsatisfactory.
Thus will I die myself, that ye friends may
love the earth more for my sake; and earth will I
again become, to have rest in her that bore me.
Verily, a goal had Zarathustra ; he threw his
ball. Now be ye friends the heirs of my goal;
to you throw I the golden ball.
Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the
golden ball ! And so tarry I still a little while
on the earth — pardon me for it !
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXII.— THE BESTOWING VIRTUE.
I.
When Zarathustra had taken leave of the town
to which his heart was attached, the name of which
is " The Pied Cow," there followed him many people
who called themselves his disciples, and kept him
company. Thus came they to a cross-road. Then
Zarathustra told them that he now wanted to go
alone ; for he was fond of going alone. His
disciples, however, presented him at his departure
with a staff, on the golden handle of which a serpent
twined round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on
account of the staff, and supported himself thereon ;
then spake he thus to his disciples ;
^6 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Tell me, pray : how came gold to the highest
value ? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting,
and beaming, and soft in lustre ; it always be-
stoweth itself.
Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to
the highest value. Goldlike, beameth the glance
of the bestower. Gold-lustre maketh peace between
moon and sun.
Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting,
beaming is it, and soft of lustre : a bestowing virtue
is the highest virtue.
Verily, I divine you well, my disciples : ye strive
like me for the bestowing virtue. What should ye
have in common with cats and wolves ?
It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts
yourselves : and therefore have ye the thirst to
accumulate all riches in your soul.
Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and
jewels, because your virtue is insatiable in desiring
to bestow.
Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and
into you, so that they shall flow back again out of
your fountain as the gifts of your love.
Verily, an appropriator of all values must such
bestowing love become ; but healthy and holy, call
I this selfishness. —
Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and
hungry kind, which would always steal — the selfish-
ness of the sick, the sickly selfishness.
With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that
IS lustrous ; with the craving of hunger it measureth
him who hath abundance ; and ever doth it prowl
round the tables of bestowers.
XXII.— THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 87
Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible
degeneration ; of a sickly body, speaketh the
larcenous craving of this selfishness.
Tell me, my brother, what do we think bad, and
worst of all? Is it not degeneration? — And we
always suspect degeneration when the bestowing
soul is lacking.
Upward goeth our course from genera on to
super-genera. But a horror to us is the degenerat-
ing sense, which saith : "All for myself."
Upward soareth our sense : thus is it a simile of
our body, a simile of an elevation. Such similes of
elevations are the names of the virtues.
Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer
and fighter. And the spirit — what is it to the body ?
Its fights' and victories' herald, its companion
and echo.
Similes, are all names of good and evil ; they do
not speak out, they only hint. A fool who seeketh
knowledge from them !
Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your
spirit would speak in similes : there is the origin
of your virtue.
Elevated is then your body, and raised up ; with
its delight, enraptureth it the spirit ; so that it
becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and every-
thing's benefactor.
When your heart overfloweth broad and full like
the river, a blessing and a danger to the lowlanders:
there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are exalted above praise and blame, and
your will would command all things, as a loving
one's will : there is the origin of your virtue.
88 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
When ye despise pleasant things, and the effemi-
nate couch, and cannot couch far enough from the
effeminate : there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are willers of one will, and when that
change of every need is needful to you : there is
the origin of your virtue.
Verily, a new good and evil is it ! Verily, a new
deep murmuring, and the voice of a new fountain !
Power is it, this new virtue ; a ruling thought is
it, and around it a subtle soul : a golden sun, with
the serpent of knowledge around it.
2.
Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked
lovingly on his disciples. Then he continued to
speak thus — and his voice had changed :
Remain true to the earth, my brethren, with the
power of your virtue ! Let your bestowing love
and your knowledge be devoted to be the meaning
of the earth !. Thus do I pray and conjure you.
Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat
against eternal walls with its wings! Ah, there
hath always been so much flown-away virtue !
Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue back to the
earth — yea, back to body and life : that it may give
to the earth its meaning, a human meaning !
A hundred times hithefto hath spirit as well as
virtue flown away and blundered. Alas ! in our
body dwelleth still all this delusion and blundering :
body and will hath it there become.
A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as
virtue attempted and erred. Yea, an attempt hath
XXII. — THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 89
man been. Alas, much ignorance and error hath
become embodied in us !
Not only the rationah'ty of millenniums — also
their madness, breaketh out in us. Dangerous is
it to be an heir.
Still fight we step by step with the giant Chance,
and over all mankind hath hitherto ruled nonsense,
the lack-of-sense.
Let your spirit and your virtue be devoted to the
sense of the earth, my brethren : let the value of
everything be determined anew by you ! Therefore
shall ye be fighters ! Therefore shall ye be creators !
Intelligently doth the body purify itself ; attempt-
ing with intelligence it exalteth itself; to the
discerners all impulses sanctify themselves ; to the
exalted the soul becometh joyful.
Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also
heal thy patient. Let it be his best cure to see with
his eyes him who maketh himself whole.
A thousand paths are there which have never yet
been trodden ; a thousand salubrities and hidden
islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is
still man and man's world.
Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones ! From
the future come winds with stealthy pinions, and to
fine ears good tidings are proclaimed.
Ye lonesome ones of to-day, ye seceding ones, ye
shall one day be a people : out of you who have
chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people arise: —
and out of it the Superman.
Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become !
And already is a new odour diffused around it, a
salvation-bringing odour — and a new hope I
90 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
3.
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he
paused, like one who had not said his last word ;
and long did he balance the staff doubtfully in his
hand. At last he spake thus — and his voice had
changed :
I now go alone, my disciples ! Ye also now go
away, and alone ! So will I have it.
Verily, I advise you : depart from me, and guard
yourselves against Zarathustra ! And better still :
be ashamed of him ! Perhaps he hath deceived you.
The man of knowledge must be able not only to
love his enemies, but also to hate his friends.
One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain
merely a scholar. And why will ye not pluck
at my wreath ?
Ye venerate me ; but what if your veneration
should some day collapse ? Take heed lest a statue
crush you !
Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra ? But of what
account is Zarathustra ! Ye are my believers : but
of what account are all believers !
Ye had not yet sought yourselves : then did ye
find me. So do all believers ; therefore all belief
is of so little account.
Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves ;
and only when ye have all denied me, will I return
unto you.
Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then
seek my lost ones ; with another love shall I then
love you.
And once again shall ye have become friends
XXTI.r-THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 9I
unto me, and children of one hope : then will I be
with you for the third time, to celebrate the great
noontide with you.
And it is the great noontide, when man is in the
middle of his course between animal and Superman,
and celebrateth his advance to the evening as his
highest hope: for it is the advance to a new
morning.
At such time will the down-goer bless himself,
that he should be an over-goer ; and the sun of his
knowledge will be at noontide.
" Dead are all the Gods : now do we desire the
Superman to /zV^r."— Let this be our final will at the
great noontide! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
SECOND PART
** — and only when ye have all
denied me, will I return unto
you.
Verily, with other eyes, my
brethren, shall I then seek my
lost ones; with anothwr love
shall I then love you."— Zara-
THUSTRA, I., "The Bestowing
Virtue " (p. 90).
XXIII.— THE CHILD WITH THE
MIRROR.
After this Zarathustra returned again into the
mountains to the solitude of his cave, and withdrew
himself from men, waiting like a sower who hath
scattered his seed. His soul, however, became
impatient and full of longing for those whom he
loved : because he had still much to give them.
For this is hardest of all : to close the open hand
out of love, and keep modest as a giver.
Thus passed with the lonesome one months and
years ; his wisdom meanwhile increased, and caused
him pain by its abundance.
One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy
dawn, and having meditated long on his couch, at
last spake thus to his heart :
Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke ?
Did not a child come to me, carrying a mirror ?
" O Zarathustra " — said the child unto me —
" look at thyself in the mirror ! "
But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked,
and my heart throbbed : for not myself did I see
therein, but a devil's grimace and derision.
Verily, all too well do I understand the dream's
portent and monition : my doctrine is in danger ;
tares want to be called wheat !
Mine enemies have grown powerful and have
96 . THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
disfigured the likeness of my doctrine, so that my
dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I gave
them.
Lost are my friends ; the hour hath come for me
to seek my lost ones ! —
With these words Zarathustra started up, not
however like a, person in anguish seeking relief, but
rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit
inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and
serpent gaze upon him : for a coming bliss over-
spread his countenance like the rosy dawn.
What hath happened unto me, mine animals ? —
said Zarathustra. Am I not transformed? Hath
not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind ?
Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will
it speak: it is still too young — so have patience
with it !
Wounded am I by my happiness : all sufferers
shall be physicians unto me !
To my friends can I again go down, and also to
mine enemies ! Zarathustra can again speak and
bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones !
My impatient love overfloweth in streams, —
down towards sunrise and sunset. Out of silent
mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul
into the valleys.
Too long have I longed and looked into the
distance. Too long hath solitude possessed me :
thus have I unlearned to keep silence.
Utterance have I become altogether, and the
brawling of a brook from high rocks : downward
into the valleys will I hurl my speech.
And let the stream of my love sweep into
XXIII.— THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR. 97
unfrequented channels ! How should a stream
not finally find its way to the sea !
Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and
self-sufficing ; but the stream of my love beareth
this along with it, down — to the sea !
New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto
me ; tired have I become — like all creators — of the
old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on
worn-out soles.
Too slowly runneth all speaking for me : — into
thy chariot, O storm, do I leap I And even thee
will I whip with my spite !
Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide
seas, till I find the Happy Isles where my friends
sojourn ; —
And mine enemies amongst them ! How I
now love every one unto whom I may but speak !
Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss.
And when I want to mount my wildest horse,
then doth my spear always help me up best : it is
my foot's ever ready servant : —
The spear which I hurl at mine enemies ! How
grateful am I to mine enemies that I may at last
hurl it !
Too great hath been the tension of my cloud :
*twixt laughters of lightnings will I cast hail-
showers into the depths.
Violently will my breast then heave; violently
will it blow its storm over the mountains : thus
cometh its assuagement.
Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and
my freedom ! But mine enemies shall think that
tiu evil one roareth over their heads.
Q
98 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my
wild wisdom ; and perhaps ye will flee therefrom,
along with mine enemies.
Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with
shepherds' flutes! Ah, that my lioness wisdom
would learn to roar softly ! And much have we
already learned with one another !
My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lone-
some mountains ; on the rough stones did she bear
the youngest of her young.
Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilder-
ness, and seeketh and seeketh the soft sward— mine
old, wild wisdom !
On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends ! —
on your love, would she fain couch her dearest one! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXIV.— IN THE HAPPY ISLES.
The figs fall from the trees, they are good and
sweet ; and in falling the red skins of them break.
A north wind am I to ripe figs.
Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you,
my friends : imbibe now their juice and their sweet
substance ! It is autumn all around, and clear sky,
and afternoon.
Lo, what fulness is around us ! And out of the
midst of superabundance, it is delightful to look
out upon distant seas.
Once did people say God, when they looked out
upon distant seas ; now, however, have I taught
you to say. Superman.
XXIV.— IN THE HAPPY ISLES. 99
God is a conjecture : but I do not wish your con-
jecturing to reach beyond your creating will.
Could ye create a God ?— Then, I pray you, be
silent about all Gods! But ye could well create
the Superman.
Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren ! But '
into fathers and forefathers of the Superman could
ye transform yourselves : and let that be your best
creating ! —
God is a conjecture : but I should like your con-
jecturing restricted to the conceivable.
Could ye conceive a God?— But let this mean
Will to Truth unto you, that everything be trans-
formed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly
visible, the humanly sensible ! Your own discern-
ment shall ye follow out to the end !
And what ye have called the world shall but be
created by you : your reason, your likeness, your
will, your love, shall it itself become ! And verily,
for your bliss, ye discerning ones !
And how would ye endure life without that hope,
ye discerning ones? Neither in the inconceivable
could ye have been born, nor in the irrational.
But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto
you, my friends : if there were Gods, how could I
endure it to be no God ! Therefore there are no
Gods.
Yea, I have drawn the conclusion ; now, however,
doth it draw me. —
God is a conjecture : but who could drink all the
bitterness of this conjecture without dying ? Shall
his faith be taken from the creating one, and from
the eagle his flights into eagle-heights ?
100 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
God is a thought— it maketh all the straight
crooked, and all that standeth reel. What ? Time
would be gone, and all the perishable would be but
a lie?
To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human
limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily,
the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such
a thing.
Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teach-
ing about the one, and the plenum, and the
unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable !
All the imperishable— that's but a simile, and the
poets lie too much. —
But of time and of becoming shall the best similes
speak : a praise shall they be, and a justification of
all perishableness !
Creating — that is the great salvation from
suffering, and life's alleviation. But for the creator
to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much
transformation.
Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life,
ye creators 1 Thus are ye advocates and justifiers
of all perishableness.
For the creator himself to be the new-born child,
he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and
endure the pangs of the child-bearer.
Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way,
and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes.
Many a farewell have I taken ; I know the heart-
breaking last hours.
But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or,
to tell you it more candidly : just such a fate—
willeth my Will.
XXIV. — IN THE HAPPY ISLES. lOI
All feeling suffereth in me, and is in prison : but
my willing ever cometh to me as mine emanci-
pator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth : that is the true doctrine of
will and emancipation — so teachethyou Zarathustra.
No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no
longer creating ! Ah, that that great debility may
ever be far from me !
And also in discerning do I feel only my will's
procreating and evolving delight ; and if there be
innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is
will to procreation in it.
Away from God and Gods did this will allure
me ; what would there be to create if there were —
Gods!
But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my
fervent creative will ; thus impelleth it the hammer
to the stone.
Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image
for me, the image of my visions ! Ah, that it should
slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone !
Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its
prison. From the stone fly the fragments : what's
that to me ?
I will complete it : for a shadow came unto me —
the stillest and lightest of all things once came
unto me !
The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a
shadow. Ah, my brethren ! Of what account now
arc — the Gods to me ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
lOa THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IL
XXV.— THE PITIFUL.
My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your
friend: "Behold Zarathustra! Walketh he not
amongst us as if amongst animals ? "
But it is better said in this wise: "The dis-
cerning one walketh amongst men as amongst
animals."
Man himself is to the discerning one : the animal
with red cheeks.
How hath that happened unto him ? Is it not
because he hath had to be ashamed too oft ?
O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning
one: shame, shame, shame — that is the history
of man !
And on that account doth the noble one enjoin
upon himself not to abash: bashfulness doth he
enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers.
Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose
bliss is in their pity: too destitute are they of
bashfulness.
If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so ; and
if I be so, it is preferably at a distance.
Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee,
before being recognised : and thus do I bid you do,
my friends !
May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like
you across my path, and those with whom I may
have hope and repast and honey in common !
Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted :
but something better did I always seem to do when
I had learned to enjoy myself better.
XXV.— THE PITIFUL. IO3
Since humanity came into being, man hath
enjoyed himself too little : that alone, my brethren,
is our original sin !
And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then
do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to
contrive pain.
Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped
the sufferer ; therefore do I wipe also my soul.
For in seeing the sufferer suffering — thereof was
I ashamed on account of his shame ; and in helping
him, sorely did I wound his pride.
Great obligations do not make grateful, but
revengeful ; and when a small kindness is not for-
gotten, it becometh a gnawing worm.
"Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accept-
ing ! " — thus do I advise those who have naught to
bestow.
I, however, am a bestower : willingly do I bestow
as friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the
poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit from my
tree : thus doth it cause less shame.
Beggars, however, one should entirely do away
with 1 Verily, it annoyeth one to give unto them,
and it annoyeth one not to give unto them.
And likewise sinners and bad consciences!
Believe me, my friends : the sting of conscience
teacheth one to sting.
The worst things, however, are the petty
thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than
to have thought pettily !
To be sure, ye say : " The delight in petty evils
spareth one many a great evil deed." But here one
should not wish to be sparing.
104 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Like a boil is the evil deed : it itcheth and irri-
tateth and breaketh forth — it speaketh honourably.
" Behold, I am disease," saith the evil deed : that
is its honourableness.
But like infection is the petty thought: it
creepeth, and hideth, and wanteth to be nowhere —
until the whole body is decayed and withered by
the petty infection.
To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I
would whisper this word in the ear : " Better for
thee to rear up thy devil ! Even for thee there is
still a path to greatness ! " —
Ah, my brethren ! One knoweth a little too
much about every one 1 And many a one becometh
transparent to us, but still we can by no means
penetrate him.
It is difficult to live among men because silence
is so difficult.
And not to him who is offensive to us are we
most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us
at all.
If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a
resting-place for his suffering; like a hard bed, how-
ever, a camp-bed : thus wilt thou serve him best.
And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say : " I
forgive thee what thou hast done unto me ; that
thou hast done it unto thyself, however — how could
I forgive that ! "
Thus speaketh all great love : it surpasseth even
forgiveness and pity.
One should hold fast one's heart ; for when one
letteth it go, how quickly doth one's head run away !
Ah, where in the world have there been greater
XXV. — THE PITIFUL. 10$
follies than with the pitiful? And what in the
world hath caused more suffering than the follies
of the pitiful?
Woe unto all loving ones who have not an eleva-
tion which is above their pity !
Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time :
•* Even God hath his hell : it is his love for man."
And lately, did I hear him say these words :
"God is dead: of his pity for man hath God
died."—
So be ye warned against pity : from thence there
yet Cometh unto men a heavy cloud ! Verily, I
understand weather-signs !
But attend also to this word : All great love is
above all its pity : for it seeketh— to create what
is loved !
"Myself do I offer unto my love, and my neighbour
as myself' — such is the language of all creators.
All creators, however, are hard. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXVI— THE PRIESTS.
And one day Zarathustra made a sign to his
disciples, and spake these words unto them :
" Here are priests ; but although they are mine
enemies, pass them quietly and with sleeping
swords !
Even among them there are heroes; many of
them have suffered too much — : so they want to
make others suffer.
Bad enemies are they : nothing is more revenge-
I06 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
ful than their meekness. And readily doth he soil
himself who toucheth them.
But my blood is related to theirs ; and I want
withal to see my blood honoured in theirs." —
And when they had passed, a pain attacked Zara-
thustra ; but not long had he struggled with the
pain, when he began to speak thus :
It moveth my heart for those priests. They also
go against my taste ; but that is the smallest matter
unto me, since I am among men.
But I suffer and have suffered with them:
prisoners are they unto me, and stigmatised ones.
He whom they call Saviour put them in fetters : —
In fetters of false values and fatuous words ! Oh,
that some one would save them from their Saviour 1
On an isle they once thought they had landed,
when the sea tossed them about; but behold, it
was a slumbering monster !
False values and fatuous words : these are the
worst monsters for mortals — long slumbereth and
waiteth the fate that is in them.
But at last it cometh and awaketh and devoureth
and engulfeth whatever hath built tabernacles
upon it.
Oh, just look at those tabernacles which those
priests have built themselves ! Churches, they call
their sweet-smelling caves !
Oh, that falsified light, that mustified air ! Where
the soul — may not fly aloft to its height !
But so enjoineth their belief: "On your knees,
up the stair, ye sinners ! "
Verily, rather would I see a shameless one than
the distorted eyes of their shame and devotion I
XXVI.— THE PRIESTS. IO7
Who created for themselves such caves and
penitence-stairs? Was it not those who sought to
conceal themselves, and were ashamed under the
clear sky ?
And only when the clear sky looketh again
through ruined roofs, and down upon grass and red
poppies on ruined walls — will I again turn my heart
to the seats of this God.
They called God that which opposed and afflicted
them : and verily, there was much hero-spirit in
their worship !
And they knew not how to love their God other-
wise than by nailing men to the cross !
As corpses they thought to live ; in black draped
they their corpses ; even in their talk do I still feel
the evil flavour of charnel-houses.
And he who liveth nigh unto them liveth nigh
unto black pools, wherein the toad singeth his song
with sweet gravity.
Better songs would they have to sing, for me to
believe in their Saviour: more like saved ones
would his disciples have to appear unto me !
Naked, would I like to see them : for beauty
alone should preach penitence. But whom would
that disguised affliction convince !
Verily, their Saviours themselves came not from
freedom and freedom's seventh heaven ! Verily,
they themselves never trod the carpets of know-
ledge !
Of defects did the spirit of those Saviours consist ;
but into every defect had they put their illusion,
their stop-gap, which they called God.
In their pity was their spirit drowned ; and when
I08 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
they swelled and o'erswelled with pity, there always
floated to the surface a great folly.
Eagerly and with shouts drove they their flock
over their foot-bridge; as if there were but one
foot-bridge to the future ! Verily, those shepherds
also were still of the flock !
Small spirits and spacious souls had those shep-
herds : but, my brethren, what small domains have
even the most spacious souls hitherto been I
Characters of blood did they write on the way
they went, and their folly taught that truth is
proved by blood.
But blood is the very worst witness to truth ;
blood tainteth the purest teaching, and turneth it
into delusion and hatred of heart.
And when a person goeth through fire for his
teaching— what doth that prove! It is more,
verily, when out of one's own burning cometh one's
own teaching !
Sultry heart and cold head; where these meet,
there ariseth the blusterer, the " Saviour."
Greater ones, verily, have there been, and higher-
born ones, than those whom the people call Saviours,
those rapturous blusterers !
And by still greater ones than any of the Saviours
must ye be saved, my brethren, if ye would find the
way to freedom !
Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked
have I seen both of them, the greatest man and the
smallest man : —
All-too-similar are they still to each other.
Verily, even the greatest found I — all-too-human ' —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXVII. — THE VIRTUOUS.
XXVII.— THE VIRTUOUS.
;-
With thunder and heavenly fireworks must one
speak to indolent and somnolent senses.
But beauty's voice speaketh gently : it appealeth
only to the most awakened souls.
Gently vibrated and laughed unto me to-day
my buckler ; it was beauty's holy laughing and
thrilling.
At you, ye virtuous ones, laughed my beauty
to-day. And thus came its voice unto me : " They
want — to be paid besides ! "
Ye want to be paid besides, ye virtuous ones !
Ye want reward for virtue, and heaven for earth,
and eternity for your to-day ?
And now ye upbraid me for teaching that there
is no reward-giver, nor paymaster? And verily, I
do not even teach that virtue is its own reward.
Ah ! this is my sorrow : into the basis of things
have reward and punishment been insinuated — and
now even into the basis of your souls, ye virtuous
ones !
But like the snout of the boar shall my word
grub up the basis of your souls ; a ploughshare will
I be called by you.
All the secrets of your heart shall be brought to
light ; and when ye lie in the sun, grubbed up and
broken, then will also your falsehood be separated
from your truth.
For this is your truth : ye are too pure for the
filth of the words : vengeance, punishment, recom-
pense, retribution.
Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child ;
no THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
but when did one hear of a mother wanting to be
paid for her love ?
It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring's
thirst is in you: to reach itself again struggleth
every ripg, and turneth itself.
And like the star that goeth out, so is every work
of your virtue : ever is its light on its way and
travelling — and when will it cease to be on its way ?
Thus is the light of your virtue still on its way,
even when its work is done. Be it forgotten and
dead, still its ray of light liveth and travelleth.
That your virtue is your Self, and not an outward
thing, a skin, or a cloak : that is the truth from the
basis of your souls, ye virtuous ones ! —
But sure enough there are those to whom virtue
meaneth writhing under the lash: and ye have
hearkened too much unto their crying !
And others are there who call virtue the slothful-
ness of their vices ; and when once their hatred and
jealousy relax the limbs, their "justice" becometh
lively and rubbeth its sleepy eyes.
And others are there who are drawn downwards :
their devils draw them. But the more they sink,
the more ardently gloweth their eye, and the long-
ing for their God.
Ah ! their crying also hath reached your ears, ye
virtuous ones : " What I am not, that, that is God
to me, and virtue ! "
And others are there who go along heavily and
creakingly, like carts taking stones downhill : they
talk much of dignity and virtue— their drag they
call virtue !
And others are there who are like eight-day
XXVII.— THE VIRTUOUS. Ill
clocks when wound up ; they tick, and want people
to call ticking — virtue.
Verily, in those have I mine amusement : where-
ever I find such clocks I shall wind them up with
my mockery, and they shall even whirr thereby !
And others are proud of their modicum of
righteousness, and for the sake of it do violence
to all things : so that the world is drowned in their
unrighteousness.
Ah ! how ineptly cometh the word " virtue " out
of their mouth ! And when they say : " I am just,"
it always soundeth like : " I am just — revenged ! "
With their virtues they want to scratch out the
eyes of their enemies ; and they elevate themselves
only that they may lower others.
And again there are those who sit in their
swamp, and speak thus from among the bulrushes :
" Virtue — that is to sit quietly in the swamp.
We bite no one, and go out of the way of him
who would bite ; and in all matters we have the
opinion that is given us."
And again there are those who love attitudes,
and think that virtue is a sort of attitude.
Their knees continually adore, and their hands
are eulogies of virtue, but their heart knoweth
naught thereof.
And again there are those who regard it as
virtue to say : " Virtue is necessary " ; but after all
they believe only that policemen are necessary.
And many a one who cannot see men's loftiness,
calleth it virtue to see their baseness far too well :
thus calleth he his evil eye virtue. —
And some want to be edified and raised up, and
112 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
call it virtue : and others want to be cast down, —
and likewise call it virtue.
And thus do almost all think that they partici-
pate in virtue ; and at least every one claimeth
to be an authority on " good " and " evil."
But Zarathustra came not to say unto all those
liars and fools : " What do ye know of virtue !
What could ye know of virtue ! " —
But that ye, my friends, might become weary
of the old words which ye have learned from the
fools and liars :
That ye might become weary of the words
"reward," "retribution," "punishment," "righteous
vengeance." —
That ye might become weary of saying : " That
an action is good is because it is unselfish."
Ah! my friends! That your very Self be in
your action, as the mother is in the child : let that
be your formula of virtue !
Verily, I have taken from you a hundred formulae
and your virtue's favourite playthings ; and now
ye upbraid me, as children upbraid.
They played by the sea — then came there a
wave and swept their playthings into the deep:
and now do they cry.
But the same wave shall bring them new play-
things, and spread before them new speckled
shells !
Thus will they be comforted; and like them
shall ye also, my friends, have your comforting —
and new speckled shells! —
Thus spake Zarathustra. r'
XXVIII. — THE RABBLE. II3
XXVIII.— THE RABBLE.
Life is a well of delight ; but where the rabble
alsodrink, there all f^ountams are poisoned.
To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but
I hate to see the grinning mouths and the thirst
of the iindfan._
They cast their eye down into the fountain: anr^
now glanceth up to me their odious smile out «^i
the fountain.
The holy water have they poisoned with their
lustfulness ; and when they called their filthy
dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words.
Indignant becometh the flame when they put
their damp hearts to the fire; the spirit itself
bubbleth and smoketh when the rabble approach
the fire.
Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit
in their hands : unsteady, and withered at the top,
doth their look make the fruit-tree.
And many a one who hath turned away from
life, hath only turned away from the rabble : he
hated to share with them fountain, flame, and fruit.
And many a one who hath gone into the
wilderness and suffered thirst with beasts of prey,
disliked only to sit at the cistern with filthy camel-
drivers.
And many a one who hath come along as a
destroyer, and as a hailstorm to all cornfields,
wanted merely to put his foot into the jaws of
the rabble, and thus stop their throat.
And it is not the mouthful which hath most
U
114 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
choked me, to know that life itself requireth enmity
and death and torture-crosses : —
But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my
question : What ? is the rabble also necessary for
life?
Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking
fires, and filthy dreams, and maggots in the bread
of life?
Not my hatred, but my loathing, gnawed hungrily
at my life ! Ah, ofttimes became I weary ol spirit,
when I found even the rabble spiritual !
And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw
what they now call ruling : to traffic and bargain
for power — with the rabble !
Amongst peoples of a strange language did I
dwell, with stopped ears : so that the language of
their trafficking might remain strange unto me, and
their bargaining for power.
And holding my nose, I went morosely through
all yesterdays and to-days : verily, badly smell all
yesterdays and to-days of the scribbling rabble !
Like a cripple become deaf, and blind, and
dumb — thus have I lived long ; that I might not
live with the power-rabble, the scribe-rabble, and the
pleasure-rabble.
Toilsomely did my spirit mount stairs, and
cautiously ; alms of delight were its refreshment ;
on the staff did life creep along with the blind one.
What hath happened unto me? How have I
freed myself from loathing ? Who hath rejuvenated
mine eye ? How have I flown to the height where
no rabble any longer sit at the wells ?
Did my loathing itself create for me wings and
XXVIII.— THE RABBLE. II 5
fountafn-divining powers? Verily, to the loftiest
height had I to fly, to find again the well of delight!
Oh, I have found it, my brethren ! Here on the
loftiest height bubbleth up for me the well of
delight ! And there is a life at whose waters none
of the rabble drink with me !
Almost too violently dost thou flow for me,
thou fountain of delight! And often emptiest
thou the goblet again, in wanting to fill it !
And yet must I learn to approach thee more
modestly : far too violently doth my heart still flow
towards thee : —
My heart on which my summer burneth, my
short, hot, melancholy, over-happy summer : how
my summer heart longeth for thy coolness !
Past, the lingering distress of my spring ! Past,
the wickedness of my snowflakes in J une ! Summer
have I become entirely, and summer-noontide !
A summer on the loftiest height, with cold
fountains and blissful stillness : oh, come, my
friends, that the stillness may become more blissful !
For this is our height and our home : too high
and steep do we here dwell for all uncleanly ones
and their thirst.
Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my
delight, my friends ! How could it become turbid
thereby! It shall laugh back to you with its
purity.
On the tree of the future build we our nest ;
eagles shall bring us lone ones food in their beaks !
Verily, no food of which the impure could be
fellow-partakers ! Fire, would they think they
devoured, and burn their mouths I
Il6 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Verily, no abodes do we here keep ready for the
impure! An ice-cave to their bodies would our
happiness be, and to their spirits !
And as strong winds will we live above them,
neighbours to the eagles, neighbours to the snow,
neighbours to the sun : thus live the strong winds.
And like a wind will I one day blow amongst
them, and with my spirit, take the breath from their
spirit : thus willeth my future.
Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low
places ; and this counsel counselleth he to his
enemies, and to whatever spitteth and speweth :
" Take care not to spit against the wind ! "—
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXIX.— THE TARANTULAS.
Lo, this is the tarantula's den ! Would'st thou
see the tarantula itself? Here hangeth its web :
touch this, so that it may tremble.
There cometh the tarantula willingly : Welcome,
tarantula ! Black on thy back is thy triangle and
symbol ; and I know also what is in thy soul.
Revenge is in thy soul : wherever thou bitest,
there ariseth black scab ; with revenge, thy poison
maketh the soul giddy !
Thus do I speak unto you in parable, ye who make
the soul giddy, ye preachers of equality ! Tarantulas
are ye unto me, and secretly revengeful ones !
But I will soon bring your hiding-places to the
light : therefore do I laugh in your face my laughter
of the height.
XXIX. — THE TARANTULAS. 117
Therefore do I tear at your web, that your rage
may lure you out of your den of lies, and that your
revenge may leap forth from behind your word
"justice."
Because, Z^?/' man to be redeemed front revenge —
that is for me the bridge to the highest hope, and a
rainbow after long storms.
Otherwise, however, would the tarantulas have it.
** Let it be very justice for the world to become full
of the storms of our vengeance " — thus do they talk
to one another.
" Vengeance will we use, and insult, against all
who are not like us " — thus do the tarantula-hearts
pledge themselves.
" And • Will to Equality '—that itself shall hence-
forth be the name of virtue ; and against all that
hath power will we raise an outcry ! "
Ye preachers of equality, the tyrant-frenzy of
impotence crieth thus in you for " equality " : your
most secret tyrant-longings disguise themselves
thus in virtue-words !
Fretted conceit and suppressed envy — perhaps
your fathers' conceit and envy : in you break they
forth as flame and frenzy of vengeance.
What the father hath hid cometh out in the son ;
and oft have I found the son the father's revealed
secret.
Inspired ones they resemble : but it is not the
heart that inspireth them — but vengeance. And
when they become subtle and cold, it is not spirit,
but envy, that maketh them so.
Their jealousy leadeth them also into thinkers'
paths ; and this is the sign of their jealousy — they
Il8 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
always go too far : so that their fatigue hath at last
to go to sleep on the snow.
In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance, in
all their eulogies is maleficence ; and being judge
seemeth to them bliss.
But thus do I counsel you, tny friends : distrust
all in whom the impulse to punish is powgrfiill "
ThejTare people of bad race and lineage ; out
of their countenances peer the haTigiiiaii and the
sleuth-hound.
Distrust all those who talk much of their justice !
Verily, in their souls not only honey is lacking.
And when they call themselves " the good and
just," forget not, that for them to be Pharisees,
nothing is lacking but — power ! '
My friends, I will not be mixed up and con-
founded with others.
There are those who preach my doctrine of life,
and are at the same time preav,hers of equality,
and tarantulas.
That they speak in favour of life, though they sit
in their den, these poison-spiders, and withdrawn
from life — is because they would thereby do
injury.
To those would they thereby do injury who have
power at present : for with those the preaching of
death is still most at home.
Were it otherwise, then would the tarantulas
teach otherwise : and they themselves were formerly
the best world-maligners and heretic-burners.
With these preachers of equality will I not be
mixed up and confounded. For thus speaketh
justice unto me: " Men are not equal."
XXIX. — THE TARANTULAS. II9
And neither shall they become so ! What would
be my love to the Superman, if I spake otherwise?
On a thousand bridges and piers shall they
throng to the future, and always shall there be
more war and inequality among them : thus doth
my great love make me speak !
Inventors of figures and phantoms shall they be
in their hostilities ; and with those figures and
phantoms shall they yet fight with each other the
supreme fight !
TQod and evil, and rich and poor, and high and
,andall names of values: weapons shall they
be, and sounding signs, that life must again and
.-^Q^
again lufpass ItselftT
* Aloft will it build itself with columns and stairs
—life itself: into remote distances would it gaze,
and out towards blissful beauties — therefore doth
it require elevation !
And because it requireth elevation, therefore doth
it require steps, and variance of steps and climbers I
To rise striveth life, and in rising to surpass itself.
And just behold, my friends ! Here where the
tarantula's den is, riseth aloft an ancient temple's
ruins — ^just behold it with enlightened eyes !
Verily, he who here towered aloft his thoughts in
stone, knew as well as the wisest ones about the
secret of life !
That there is struggle and inequality even in
beauty, and war for power and supremacy: that
doth he here teach us in the plainest parable.
How divinely do vault and arch here contrast in
the struggle : how with light and shade they strive
against each other, the divinely striving ones. —
I20 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Thus, steadfast and beautiful, let us also be
enemies, my friends! Divinely will we strive
against one another ! —
Alas ! There hath the tarantula bit me myself,
mine old enemy ! Divinely steadfast and beautiful,
it hath bit me on the finger !
"Punishment must there be, and justice" — so
thinketh it: "not gratuitously shall he here sing
songs in honour of enmity ! "
Yea, it hath revenged itself! And alas! now
will it make my soul also dizzy with revenge !
That I may not turn dizzy, however, bind me
fast, my friends, to this pillar ! Rather will I be a
pillar-saint than a whirl of vengeance !
Verily, no cyclone or whirlwind is Zarathustra :
and if he be a dancer, he is not at all a tarantula-
dancer ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXX.— THE FAMOUS WISE ONES.
The people have ye served and the people's
superstition — not the truth 1 — all ye famous wise
ones ! And just on that account did they pay you
reverence.
And on that account also did they tolerate your
unbelief, because it was a pleasantry and a by-path
for the people. Thus doth the master give free
scope to his slaves, and even enjoyeth their pre-
sumptuousness.
But he who is hated by the people, as the wolf
by the dogs — is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters,
the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods.
XXX.— THE FAMOUS WISE ONES. 121
To hunt him out of his lair — that was always
called "sense of right" by the people: on him do
they still hound their sharpest- toothed dogs.
" For there the truth is, where the people are !
Woe, woe to the seeking ones!" — thus hath it
echoed through all time.
Your people would ye justify in their reverence:
that called ye " Will to Truth," ye famous wise ones !
And your heart hath always said to itself : " From
the people have I come: from thence came to me
also the voice of God."
Stiff-necked and artful, like the ass, have ye
always been, as the advocates of the people.
And many a powerful one who wanted to run
well with the people, hath harnessed in front of his
horses — a donkey, a famous wise man.
And now, ye famous wise ones, I would have you
finally throw off entirely the skin of the lion !
The skin of the beast of prey, the speckled skin,
and the dishevelled locks of the investigator, the
searcher, and the conqueror !
Ah ! for me to learn to believe in your " conscien-
tiousness," ye would first have to break your vener-
ating will.
Conscientious — so call I him who goeth into God-
forsaken wildernesses, and hath broken his venerat-
ing heart.
In the yellow sands and burnt by the sun, he
doubtless peereth thirstily at the isles rich in
fountains, where life reposeth under shady trees.
But his thirst doth not persuade him to become
like those comfortable ones : for where there are
oases, there are also idols.
122 • THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 11.
Hungry, fierce, lonesome, God-forsaken : so doth
the lion-will wish itself.
Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from
Deities and adorations, fearless and fear-inspir-
ing, grand and lonesome : so is the will of the
conscientious.
In the wilderness have ever dwelt the conscien-
tious, the free spirits, as lords of the wilderness ;
but in the cities dwell the well-foddered, famous
wise ones — the draught-beasts.
For, always, do they draw, as asses — the people's
carts !
Not that I on that account upbraid them : but
serving ones do they remain, and harnessed ones,
even though they glitter in golden harness.
And often have they been good servants and
worthy of their hire. For thus saith virtue : "If
thou must be a servant, seek him unto whom thy
service is most useful !
The spirit and virtue of thy master shall advance
by thou being his servant : thus wilt thou thyself
advance with his spirit and virtue ! "
And verily, ye famous wise ones, ye servants of
the people! Ye yourselves have advanced with
the people's spirit and virtue — and the people by
you ! To your honour do I say it !
But the people ye remain for me, even with
your virtues, the people with purblind eyes — the
people who know not what spirit is !
Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life : by its
own torture doth it increase its own knowledge, —
did ye know that before ?
And the spirit's happiness is this : to be anointed
XXX. — THE FAMOUS WISE ONES. 1 23
and consecrated with tears as a sacrificial victim, —
did ye know that before?
And the blindness of the blind one, and his
seeking and groping, shall yet testify to the power
of the sun into which he hath gazed,— did ye know
that before ?
And with mountains shall the discerning one
learn to build! It is a small thing for the spirit to
remove mountains, — did ye know that before ?
Ye know only the sparks of the spirit : but ye
do not see the anvil which it is, and the cruelty of
its hammer !
Verily, ye know not the spirit's pride ! But still
less could ye endure the spirit's humility, should it
ever want to speak !
And never yet could ye cast your spirit into a
pit of snow : ye are not hot enough for that ! Thus
are ye unaware, also, of the delight of its coldness.
In all respects, however, ye make too familiar
with the spirit ; and out of wisdom have ye often
made an almshouse and a hospital for bad poets.
Ye are not eagles: thus have ye never ex-
perienced the happiness of the alarm of the spirit
And he who is not a bird should not camp above
abysses.
Ye seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly
floweth all deep knowledge. Ice-cold are the
innermost wells of the spirit : a refreshment to hot
hands and handlers.
Respectable do ye there stand, and stiff, and
with straight backs, ye famous wise ones! — no
strong wind or will impelleth you.
Have ye ne'er seen a sail crossing the sea,
124 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 11.
rounded and inflated, and trembling with the
violence of the wind ?
Like the sail trembling with the violence of the
spirit, doth my wisdom cross the sea — my wild
wisdom !
But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise
ones — how could ye go with me ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXI.— THE NIGHT-SONG.
'Tis night : now do all gushing fountains speak
louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
'Tis night : now only do all songs of the loving
ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a
loving one.
Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within
me ; it longeth to find expression. A craving for
love is within me, which speaketh itself the language
of love.
Light am I : ah, that I were night ! But it is
my lonesomeness to be begirt with light !
Ah, that I were dark and nightly ! How would
I suck at the breasts of light !
And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling
starlets and glow-worms aloft ! — and would rejoice
in the gifls of your light.
But I live in mine own light, I drink again into
myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver ; and
oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more
blessed than receiving.
XXXI.— THE NIGHT-SONG. 12$
It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth
bestowing ; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes
and the brightened nights of longing.
Oh, the misery of all bestowers ! Oh, the dark-
ening of my sun ! Oh, the craving to crave ! Oh,
the violent hunger in satiety !
They take from me : but do I yet touch their
soul ? There is a gap 'twixt giving and receiving ;
and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.
A hunger ariseth out of my beauty : I should
like to injure those I illumine; I should like to
rob those I have gifted : — thus do I hunger for
wickedness.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand
already stretcheth out to it ; hesitating like the
cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap: — thus
do I hunger for wickedness !
Such revenge doth mine abundance think of:
such mischief welletli out of my lonesomeness.
My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing ;
my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance !
He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing
his shame ; to him who ever dispenseth, the hand
and heart becomes callous by very dispensing.
Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame
of suppliants ; my hand hath become too hard for
the trembling of filled hands.
Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the
down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all
bestowers ! Oh, the silence of all shining ones !
Many suns circle in desert space : to all that is
dark do they speak with their light — but to me
they are silent.
126 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one :
unpityingly doth it pursue its course.
Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart,
cold to the suns : — thus travelleth every sun.
Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses :
that is their travelling. Their inexorable will do
they follow : that is their coldness.
Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that
extract warmth from the shining ones ! Oh, ye
only drink milk and refreshment from the light's
udders I
Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth
with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it
panteth after your thirst !
'Tis night : alas, that I have to be light ! And
thirst for the nightly ! And lonesomeness !
Tis night : now doth my longing break forth in
me as a fountain, — for speech do I long.
'Tis night : now do all gushing fountains speak
louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
'Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones
awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving
one. —
Thus sang Zarathustra.
XXXII.— THE DANCE-SONG.
One evening went Zarathustra and his disciples
through the forest ; and when he sought for a well,
lo, he lighted upon a green meadow peacefully
surrounded with trees and bushes, where maidens
were dancing together. As soon as the maidens
XXXII— THE DANCE-SONG. 127
recognised Zarathustra, they ceased dancing ; Zara-
thustra, however, approached them with friendly
mein and spake these words :
Cease notyour dancing, ye lovely maidensj_ No
enemy of maidens.
God's advocate am I with the devil : he, however,
is the spirit of gravity. How could I, ye light-
footed ones, be hostile to divine dances? Or to
maidens' feet with fine ankles ?
To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark
trees : but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will
find banks full of roses under my cypresses.
And even the little God may he find, who is
dearest to maidens : beside the well lieth he quietly,
with closed eyes.
Verily, in broad daylight did he fall asleep, the
sluggard ! Had he perhaps chased butterflies too
much?
Upbraid me not, ye beautiful dancers, when I
chasten the little God somewhat! He will cry,
certainly, and weep — but he is laughable even when
weeping !
And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a
dance ; and I myself will sing a song to his dance :
A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity
my supremest, powerfulest devil, who is said to be
•• lord of the world."—
And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when
Cupid and the maidens danced together :
Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life ! And
into the unfathomable did I there seem to sink.
128 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle ;
derisively didst thou laugh when I called thee
unfathomable.
" Such is the language of all fish," saidst thou ;
" what they do not fathom is unfathomable.
But changeable am I only, and wild, and alto-
gether a woman, and no virtuous one :
Though I be called by you men the ' profound
one,' or the * faithful one,' ' the eternal one,' ' the
mysterious one.'
But ye men endow us always with your own
virtues — alas, ye virtuous ones ! "
Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one ; but
never do I believe her and her laughter, when she
speaketh evil of herself
And when I talked face to face with my wild
Wisdom, she said to me angrily : " Thou wiliest,
thou cravest, thou lovest ; on that account alone
dost thou praise Life ! "
Then had I almost answered indignantly and
told the truth to the angry one ; and one cannot
answer more indignantly than when one "telleth
the truth " to one's Wisdom.
For thus do things stand with us three. In my
heart do I love only Life — and vdrily, most when I
hate her !
But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too
fond, is because she remindeth me very strongly
of Life !
She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden
angle-rod : am I responsible for it that both are so
aHke?
And when once Life asked me : " Who is she
XXXII. — THE DANCE-S0N6. 120
then, this Wisdom ? " — then said I eagerly : " Ah,
yes ! Wisdom I
One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one
looketh through veils, one graspeth through nets.
Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the
oldest carps are still lured by her.
Changeable is she, and wayward ; often have I
seen her bite her lip, and pass the comb against the
grain of her hair.
Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a
woman ; but when she speaketh ill of herself, just
then doth she seduce most."
When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she
maliciously, and shut her eyes. " Of whom dost
thou speak ? " said she. " Perhaps of me ?
And if thou wert right — is it proper to say that
in such wise to my face! But now, pray, speak
also of thy Wisdom ! "
Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine
eyes, O beloved Life ! And into the unfathomable
have I again seemed to sink. —
Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was
over and the maidens had departed, he became sad.
**The sun hath been long set," said he at last,
" the meadow is damp, and from the forest cometh
coolness.
An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth
thoughtfully. What ! Thou livest still, Zarathustra ?
Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where?
How? Is it not folly still to live? —
Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus
interrogateth in me. Forgive me my sadness I
1
130 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Evening hath come on : forgive me that evening
hath come on ! "
Thus sang Zarathustra.
XXXIII.— THE GRAVE-SONG.
" Yonder is the grave-island, the silent isle ;
yonder also are the graves of my youth. Thither
will I carry an evergreen wreath of life."
Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o'er the
sea. —
Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth ! Oh, all
ye gleams of love, ye divine fleeting gleams ! How
could ye perish so soon for me ! I think of you
to-day as my dead ones.
From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto
me a sweet savour, heart-opening and melting.
Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart of the
lone seafarer.
Still am I the richest and most to be envied — I,
the lonesomest one ! For I have possessed you, and
ye possess me still. Tell me : to whom hath there
ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have
fallen unto me?
Still am I your love's heir and heritage, bloom-
ing to your memory with many-hued, wild-growing
virtues, O ye dearest ones !
Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each
other, ye kindly strange marvels ; and not like
timid birds did ye come to me and my longing —
nay, but as trusting ones to a trusting one !
Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond
XXXIII. — THE GRAVE-SONG. I3I
eternities, must I now name you by your faithless-
ness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams: no other
name have I yet learnt
Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives.
Yet did ye not flee from me, nor did I flee from
you : innocent are we to each other in our faithless-
ness.
To kill nuy did they strangle you, ye singing
birds of my hopes ! Yea, at you, ye dearest ones,
did malice ever shoot its arrows — to hit my heart !
And they hit it! Because ye were always my
dearest, my possession and my possessedness : on
that account had ye to die young, and far too
early !
At my most vulnerable point did they shoot the
arrow — namely, at you, whose skin is like down —
or more like the smile that dieth at a glance !
But this word will I say unto mine enemies:
What is all manslaughter in comparison with what
ye have done unto me !
Worse evil did ye do unto me than all man-
slaughter ; the irretrievable did ye take from me : —
thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies !
Slew ye not my youth's visions and dearest
marvels! My playmates took ye from me, the
blessed spirits ! To their memory do I deposit
this wreath and this curse.
This curse upon you, mine enemies ! Have ye
not made mine eternal short, as a tone dieth away
in a cold night ! Scarcely, as the twinkle of divine
eyes, did it come to me — as a fleeting gleam !
Thus spake once in a happy hour my purity:
** Divine shall everything be unto me."
132 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Then did ye haunt me with foul phantoms ; ah,
whither hath that happy hour now fled !
"All days shall be holy unto me" — so spake
once the wisdom of my youth : verily, the language
of a joyous wisdom !
But then did ye enemies steal my nights, and
sold them to sleepless torture : ah, whither hath that
joyous wisdom now fled ?
Once did I long for happy auspices : then did
ye lead an owl- monster across my path, an adverse
sign. Ah, whither did my tender longing then flee ?
All loathing did I once vow to renounce : then
did ye change my nigh ones and nearest ones into
ulcerations. Ah, whither did my noblest vow then
flee?
As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways :
then did ye cast filth on the blind one's course : and
now is he disgusted with the old footpath.
And when I performed my hardest task, and
celebrated the triumph of my victories, then did
ye make those who loved me call out that I then
grieved them most.
Verily, it was always your doing : ye embittered
to me my best honey, and the diligence of my best
bees.
To my charity have ye ever sent the most im-
pudent beggars ; around my sympathy have ye
ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus have
ye wounded the faith of my virtue.
And when I offered my holiest as a sacrifice,
immediately did your "piety" put its fatter gifts
beside it: so that my holiest suffocated in the
fumes of your fat
XXXIII.— THE GRAVE -SONG. 1 33
And once did I want to dance as I had never
yet danced : beyond all heavens did I want to
dance. Then did ye seduce my favourite minstrel.
And now hath he struck up an awful, melancholy
air ; alas, he tooted as a mournful horn to mine
ear!
Murderous minstrel, instrument of evil, most
innocent instrument! Already did I stand pre-
pared for the best dance : then didst thou slay my
rapture with thy tones I
Only in the dance do I know how to speak the
parable of the highest things : — and now hath my
grandest parable remained unspoken in my limbs !
Unspoken and unrealised hath my highest hope
remained ! And there have perished for me all the
visions and consolations of my youth I
How did I ever bear it ? How did I survive and
surmount such wounds? How did my soul rise
again out of those sepulchres ?
Yea, something invulnerable, unburiable is with
me, something that would rend rocks asunder: it
is called my Will. Silently doth it proceed, and
unchanged throughout the years.
Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will ;
hard of heart is its nature and invulnerable.
Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever livest
thou there, and art like thyself, thou most patient
one! Ever hast thou burst all shackles of the
tomb!
In thee still liveth also the unrealisedness of
my youth ; and as life and youth sittest thou here
hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves.
Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all
134 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
graves : Hail to thee, my Will ! And only where
there are graves are there resurrections. —
Thus sang Zarathustra.
XXXIV.— SELF-SURPASSING.
" Will to Truth " do ye call it, ye wisest ones, that
which impelleth you and maketh you ardent ?
Will for the thinkableness of all being : thus do
/ call your will !
All being would ye make thinkable : for ye
doubt with good reason whether it be already
thinkable.
But it shall accommodate and bend itself to you !
So willeth your will. Smooth shall it become and
subject to the spirit, as its mirror and reflection.
That is your entire will, ye wisest ones, as a
Will to Power ; and even when ye speak of good
and evil, and of estimates of value.
Ye would still create a world before which ye can
bow the knee : such is your ultimate hope and
ecstasy.
The ignorant, to be sure, the people — they are
like a river on which a boat floateth along : and in
the boat sit the estimates of value, solemn and
disguised.
Your will and your valuations have ye put on the
river of becoming ; it betrayeth unto me an old Will
to Power, what is believed by the people as good
and evil.
It was ye, ye wisest ones, who put such guests in
XXXIV.— SELF-SURPASSINU. 135
this boat, and gave them pomp and proud names —
ye and your ruling Will !
Onward the river now carrieth your boat: it
must carry it. A small matter if the rough wave
foameth and angrily resisteth its keel !
It is not the river that is your danger and the
end of your good and evil, ye wisest ones : but that
Will itself, the Will to Power — the unexhausted,
procreating life-will.
But that ye may understand my gospel of good
and evil, for that purpose will I tell you my gospel
of life, and of the nature of all living things.
The living thing did I follow ; I walked in the
broadest and narrowest paths to learn its nature.
With a hundred-faced mirror did I catch its
glance when its mouth was shut, so that its eye
might speak unto me. And its eye spake unto
me.
But wherever I found living things, there heard
I also the language of obedience. All living things
are obeying things.
And this heard I secondly: Whatever cannot
obey itself, is commanded. Such is the nature of
living things.
This, however, is the third thing which I heard-—
namely, that commanding is more difficult than
obeying. And not only because the commander
beareth the burden of all obeyers, and because this
burden readily crusheth him : —
An attempt and a risk seemed all commanding
unto me ; and whenever it commandeth, the living
thing risketh itself thereby.
Yea, even when it commandeth itself, then also
136 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
must it atone for its commanding. Of its own law
must it become the judge and avenger and victim.
How doth this happen ! so did I ask myself.
What persuadeth the living thing to obey, and
command, and even be obedient in commanding ?
Hearken now unto my word, ye wisest ones !
Test it seriously, whether I have crept into the
heart of life itself, and into the roots of its heart !
Wherever I found a living thing, there found I
Will to Power ; and even in the will of the servant
found I the will to be master.
That to the stronger the weaker shall serve —
thereto persuadeth he his will who would be master
over a still weaker one. That delight alone he is
unwilling to forego.
And as the lesser surrendereth himself to the
greater that he may have delight and power over
the least of all, so doth even the greatest surrender
himself, and staketh — life, for the sake of power.
It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and
danger, and play dice for death.
And where there is sacrifice and service and
love-glances, there also is the will to be master.
By by-ways doth the weaker then slink into the
fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one —
and there stealeth power.
And this secret spake Life herself unto me.
" Behold," said she, " I am that which must ever
surpass itself.
To be sure, ye call it will to procreation, or
impulse towards a goal, towards the higher, remoter,
more manifold : but all that is one and the same
secret.
XXXIV.— SELF-SURPASSING. 1 37
Rather would I succumb than disown this one
thing ; and verily, where there is succumbing and
leaf-falling, lo, there doth Life sacrifice itself— for
power!
That I have to be struggle, and becoming, and
purpose, and cross-purpose — ah, he who divineth
my will, divineth well also on what crooked paths
it hath to tread !
Whatever I create, and however much I love
it, — soon must I be adverse to it, and to my love :
so willeth my will.
And even thou, discerning one, art only a path
and footstep of my will : verily, my Will to Power
walketh even on the feet of thy Will to Truth !
He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at
it the formula: 'Will to existence': that will-
doth not exist !
For what is not, cannot will ; that, however,
which is in existence — how could it still strive for
existence !
Only where there is life, is there also will : not,
however. Will to Life, but— so teach I thee— Will
JfiJ^owerT"
Much IS reckoned higher than life itself by
the living one ; but out of the very reckoning
speaketh— the Will to Power ! "—
Thus did Life once teach me : and thereby, ye
wisest ones, do I solve you the riddle of your
hearts.
Verily, I say unto you: good and evil which
would be everlasting— it doth not exist !^ Of its
own acCordTnu st^Ttever surpass itself anew.
With your values and formulae of good and evil,
138 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
ye exercise power, ye valuing ones : and that is
your secret love, and the sparkling, trembling, and
overflowing of your souls.
But a stronger power groweth out of your values,
and a new surpassing: by it breaketh egg and
egg-shell.
And he who hath to be a creator in good and
evil — verily, he hath first to be a destroyer, and
break values in pieces.
Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest
good : that, however, is the creating good. —
Let us speak thereof, ye wisest ones, even though
it be bad. To be silent is worse ; all suppressed
truths become poisonous.
And let everything break up which — can break
up by our truths I Many a house is still to be
built!—
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXV.— THE SUBLIME ONES.
Calm is the bottom of my sea : who would guess
that it hideth droll monsters !
Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with
swimming enigmas and laughters.
A sublime one saw I to-day, a solemn one, a
penitent of the spirit : Oh, how my soul laughed
at his ugliness !
With upraised breast, and like those who draw
in their breath: thus did he stand, the sublime
one, and in silence :
XXXV. — THE SUBLIME ONES. 1 39
O'erhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his
hunting, and rich in torn raiment ; many thorns
also hung on him — but I saw no rose.
Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty.
Gloomy did this hunter return from the forest of
knowledge.
From the fight with wild beasts returned he
home : but even yet a wild beast gazeth out of his
seriousness — an unconquered wild beast !
As a tiger doth he ever stand, on the point of
springing ; but I do not like those strained souls ;
ungracious is my taste towards all those self-
engrossed ones.
And ye tell me, friends, that there is to be no
dis()ute about taste and tasting ? But all life is a
dispute about taste and tasting !
Taste : that is weight at the same time, and
scales and weigher ; and alas for every living
thing that would live without dispute about weight
and scales and weigher !
Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this
sublime one, then only will his beauty begin —
and then only will I taste him and find him
savoury.
And only when he tumeth away from himself
will he o'erleap his own shadow — and verily ! into
his sun.
Far too long did he sit in the shade, the cheeks
of the penitent of the spirit became pale ; he almost
starved on his expectations.
Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hideth
in his mouth. To be sure, he now resteth, but he
hath not yet taken rest in the sunshine.
140 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
As the OX ought he to do ; and his happiness
should smell of the earth, and not of contempt for
the earth.
As a white ox would I like to see him, which,
snorting and lowing, walketh before the plough-
share : and his lowing should also laud all that is
earthly !
Dark is still his countenance ; the shadow of his
hand danceth upon it O'ershadowed is still the
sense of his eye.
His deed itself is still the shadow upon him :
his doing obscureth the doer. Not yet hath he
overcome his deed.
To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the
ox: but now do I want to see also the eye of the
angel.
Also his hero-will hath he still to unlearn: an
exalted one shall he be, and not only a sublime
one : — the ether itself should raise him, the will-less
one!
He hath subdued monsters, he hath solved
enigmas. But he should also redeem his monsters
and enigmas ; into heavenly children should he
transform them.
As yet hath his knowledge not learned to smile,
and to be without jealousy ; as yet hath his gushing
passion not become calm in beauty.
Verily, not in satiety shall his longing cease and
disappear, but in beauty ! Gracefulness belongeth
to the munificence of the magnanimous.
His arm across his head : thus should the hero
repose ; thus should he also surmount his repose.
But precisely to the hero is beauty the hardest
XXXV. — THE SUBLIME ONE5. 141
thing of all. Unattainable is beauty by all ardent
wills.
A little more, a little less : precisely this is much
here, it is the most here.
To stand with relaxed muscles and with un-
harnessed will : that is the hardest for all of you,
ye sublime ones !
When power becometh gracious and descendeth
into the visible — I call such condescension, beauty.
And from no one do I want beauty so much as
from thee, thou powerful one : let thy goodness be
thy last self-conquest.
All evil do I accredit to thee: therefore do I
desire of thee the good.
Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings,
who think themselves good because they have
crippled paws !
The virtue of the pillar shalt thou strive after :
more beautiful doth it ever become, and more
graceful — but internally harder and more sustain-
ing— the higher it riseth.
Yea, thou sublime one, one day shalt thou also
be beautiful, and hold up the mirror to thine own
beauty.
Then will thy soul thrill with divine desires ; and
there will be adoration even in thy vanity !
For this is the secret of the soul : when the hero
hath abandoned it, then only approacheth it id
dreams — the superhero. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
142 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
XXXVI.— THE LAND OF CULTURE.
Too far did I fly into the future : a horror seized
upon me.
And when I looked around me, lo ! there time
was my sole contemporary.
Then did I fly backwards, homewards — and
always faster. Thus did I come unto you, ye
present-day men, and into the land of culture.
For the first time brought I an eye to see you,
and good desire : verily, with longing in my heart
did I come.
But how did it turn out with me ? Although so
alarmed — I had yet to laugh ! Never did mine eye
see anything so motley-coloured !
I laughed and laughed, while my foot still
trembled, and my heart as well. " Here forsooth,
is the home of all the paintpots," — said I.
With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs —
so sat ye there to mine astonishment, ye present-
day men !
And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered
your play of colours, and repeated it !
Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-
day men, than your own faces! Who could —
recognise you !
Written all over with the characters of the past,
and these characters also pencilled over with new
characters — thus have ye concealed yourselves well
from all decipherers !
And though one be a trier of the reins, who still
believeth that ye have reins ! Out of colours ye
seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps.
XXXVI. — THE LAND OF CULTURE. I43
All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out
of your veils ; all customs and beliefs speak divers-
coloured out of your gestures.
He who would strip you of veils and wrappers,
and paints and gestures, would just have enough
left to scare the crows.
Verily, I myself am the scared crow that once
saw you naked, and without paint ; and I flew away
when the skeleton ogled at me.
Rather would I be a day-labourer in the nether-
world, and among the shades of the by-gone ! —
Fatter and fuller than ye, are forsooth the nether-
worldlings !
This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I
can neither endure you naked nor clothed, ye
present-day men !
All that is unhomelike in the future, and what-
ever maketh strayed birds shiver, is verily more
homelike and familiar than your " reality."
For thus speak ye : " Real are we wholly, and
without faith and superstition " : thus do ye plume
yourselves — alas ! even without plumes !
Indeed, how would ye be able to believe, ye
divers-coloured ones ! — ye who are pictures of all
that hath ever been believed I
Perambulating refutations are ye, of belief itself,
and a dislocation of all thought. Untrustworthy
ones : thus do / call you, ye real ones !
All periods prate against one another in your
spirits ; and the dreams and pratings of all periods
were even realer than your awakeness !
Unfruitful are ye : therefore do ye lack belief.
But he who had to create, had always his presaging
144 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 11.
dreams and astral premonitions — and believed in
believing ! —
Half-open doors are ye, at which grave-diggers
wait. And this is your reality : " Everything
deserveth to perish."
Alas, how ye stand there before me, ye unfruitful
ones ; how lean your ribs ! And many of you
surely have had knowledge thereof
Many a one hath said : " There hath surely a
God filched something from me secretly whilst I
slept ? Verily, enough to make a girl for himself
therefrom !
" Amazing is the poverty of my ribs ! " thus hath
spoken many a present-day man.
Yea, ye are laughable unto me, ye present-day
men ! And especially when ye marvel at yourselves !
And woe unto me if I could not laugh at your
marvelling, and had to swallow all that is repugnant
in your platters !
As it is, however, I will make lighter of you, since
I have to carry what is heavy ; and what matter if
beetles and May-bugs also alight on my load !
Verily, it shall not on that account become heavier
to me! And not from you, ye present-day men,
shall my great weariness arise. —
Ah, whither shall I now ascend with my longing !
From all mountains do I look out for fatherlands
and motherlands.
But a home have I found nowhere : unsettled am
I in all cities, and decamping at all gates.
Alien to me, and a mockery, are the present-day
men, to whom of late my heart impelled me ; and
exiled am I from fatherlands and motherlands.
XXXVI.— THE LAND OF CULTURE. I45
Thus do I love only my children's land, the
undiscovered in the remotest sea: for it do I bid
my sails search and search.
Unto my children will I make amends for being
the child of my fathers : and unto all the future —
for this present-day ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXVII.— IMMACULATE PERCEPTION.
When yester-eve the moon arose, then did I fancy
it about to bear a sun : so broad and teeming did
it lie on the horizon.
But it was a liar with its pregnancy ; and sooner
will I believe in the man in the moon than in the
woman.
To be sure, little of a man is he also, that timid
night-reveller. Verily, with a bad conscience doth
he stalk over the roofs.
For he is covetous and jealous, the monk in the
moon ; covetous of the earth, and all the joys of
lovers.
Nay, I like him not, that tom-cat on the roofs !
Hateful unto me are all that slink around half-
closed windows !
Piously and silently doth he stalk along on the
star-carpets : — but I like no light-treading human
feet, on which not even a spur jingleth.
Every honest one's step speaketh ; the cat
however, stealeth along over the ground. Lo 1 cat-
like doth the moon come along, and dishonestly. —
This parable speak I unto you sentimental
K
146 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. II.
dissemblers, unto you, the " pure discerners ! " You
do / call — covetous ones !
Also ye love the earth, and the earthly : I have
divined you well ! — but shame is in your love, and
a bad conscience — ye are like the moon !
To despise the earthly hath your spirit been
persuaded, but not your bowels : these, however, are
the strongest in you !
And now is your spirit ashamed to be at the
service of your bowels, and goeth by-ways and lying
ways to escape its own shame.
" That would be the highest thing for me " — so
saith your lying spirit unto itself — " to gaze upon
life without desire, and not like the dog, with hang-
ing-out tongue :
To be happy in gazing : with dead will, free
from the grip and greed of selfishness — cold and
ashy-grey all over, but with intoxicated moon-
eyes!
That would be the dearest thing to me " — thus
doth the seduced one seduce himself, — " to love the
earth as the moon loveth it, and with the eye only
to feel its beauty.
And this do I call immaculate perception of all
things : to want nothing else from them, but to be
allowed to lie before them as a mirror with a
hundred facets." —
Oh, ye sentimental dissemblers, ye covetous ones !
Ye lack innocence in your desire : and now do ye
defame desiring on that account !
Verily, not as creators, as procreators, or as
jubilators do ye love the earth !
Where is innocence? Where there is will to
XXXVII.— IMMACULATE PERCEPTION. I47
procreation. And he who seeketh to create beyond
himself, hath for me the purest will.
Where is beauty? Where I must will ^ith. my
whole Will ; where I will love and perish, that an
image may not remain merely an image.
Loving and perishing : these have rhymed from
eiernity. Will to love : that is to be ready also for
death. Thus do I speak unto you cowards !
But now doth your emasculated ogling profess
to be ** contemplation ! " And that which can be
examined with cowardly eyes is to be christened
•'beautiful !" Oh, ye violators of noble names!
But it shall be your curse, ye immaculate ones, ye
pure discerners, that ye shall never bring forth, even
though ye lie broad and teeming on the horizon !
Verily, ye fill your mouth with noble words : and
we are to believe that your heart overfloweth, ye
cozeners ?
But my words are poor, contemptible, stammer-
ing words : gladly do I pick up what falleth from
the table at your repasts.
Yet still can I say therewith the truth — to dis-
semblers ! Yea, my fish-bones, shells, and prickly
leaves shall — tickle the noses of dissemblers !
Bad air is always about you and your repasts :
your lascivious thoughts, your lies, and secrets are
indeed in the air !
Dare only to believe in yourselves — in yourselves
and in your inward parts ! He who doth not
believe in himself always lieth.
A God's mask have ye hung in front of you, ye
" pure ones": into a God's mask hath your execrable
coiling snake crawled.
148 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Verily ye deceive, ye "contemplative ones!"
Even Zarathustra was once the dupe of your
godlike exterior ; he did not divine the serpent's
coil with which it was stuffed.
A God's soul, I once thought I saw playing in
your games, ye pure discerners ! No better arts
did I once dream of than your arts !
Serpents' filth and evil odour, the distance con-
cealed from me : and that a lizard's craft prowled
thereabouts lasciviously.
But I came nigh unto you : then came to me
the day, — and now cometh it to you, — at an end is
the moon's love affair !
See there ! Surprised and pale doth it stand —
before the rosy dawn !
For already she cometh, the glowing one, — her
love to the earth cometh ! Innocence and creative
desire, is all solar love !
See there, how she cometh impatiently over the
sea ! Do ye not feel the thirst and the hot breath
of her love ?
At the sea would she suck, and drink its depths
to her height : now riseth the desire of the sea with
its thousand breasts.
Kissed and sucked would it be by the thirst of
the sun ; vapour would it become, and height, and
path of light, and light itself!
Verily, like the sun do I love life, and all deep
seas.
And this meaneth to me knowledge : all that is
deep shall ascend — to my height ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXVIII.— SCHOLARS. 149
XXXVIII.— SCHOLARS.
When I lay asleep, then did a sheep eat at the
ivy-wreath on my head, — it ate, and said thereby :
" Zarathustra is no longer a scholar."
It said this, and went away clumsily and proudly.
A child told it to me.
I like to lie here where the children play, beside
the ruined wall, among thistles and red poppies.
A scholar am I still to the children, and also to
the thistles and red poppies. Innocent are they,
even in their wickedness.
But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar : so
willeth my lot — blessings upon it !
For this is the truth : I have departed from the
house of the scholars, and the door have I also
slammed behind me.
Too long did my soul sit hungry at their table :
not like them have I got the knack of investigating,
as the knack of nut-cracking.
Freedom do I love, and the air over fresh soil ;
rather would I sleep on ox-skins than on their
honours and dignities.
I am too hot and scorched with mine own
thought : often is it ready to take away my breath.
Then have I to go into the open air, and away
from all dusty rooms.
But they sit cool in the cool shade : they want in
everything to be merely spectators, and they avoid
sitting where the sun burneth on the steps.
Like those who stand in the street and gape at
the passers-by : thus do they also wait, and gape
at the thoughts which others have thought
I50 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Should one lay hold of them, then do they raise
a dust like flour-sacks, and involuntarily : but who
would divine that their dust came from corn, and
from the yellow delig^ht of the summer fields ?
When they give themselves out as wise, then do
their petty sayings and truths chill me : in their
wisdom there is often an odour as if it came from
the swamp ; and verily, I have even heard the frog
croak in it !
Clever are they — they have dexterous fingers :
what doth my simplicity pretend to beside their
multiplicity! All threading and knitting and
weaving do their fingers understand : thus do they
make the hose of the spirit !
Good clockworks are they : only be careful to
wind them up properly ! Then do they indicate
the hour without mistake, and make a modest noise
thereby.
Like millstones do they work, and like pestles :
throw only seed-corn unto them ! — they know well
how to grind corn small, and make white dust out
of it.
They keep a sharp eye on one another, and do
not trust each other the best. Ingenious in little
artifices, they wait for those whose knowledge
walketh on lame feet, — like spiders do they wait.
I saw them always prepare their poison with
precaution ; and always did they put glass gloves
on their fingers in doing so.
Th&y also know how to play with false dice ; and
so eagerly did I find them playing, that they per-
spired thereby.
We are alien to each other, and their virtues are
XXXVIII.— SCHOLARS. 1 51
even more repugnant to my taste than their false-
hoods and false dice.
And when I lived with them, then did I live
above them. Therefore did they take a dislike to
me.
They want to hear nothing of any one walking
above their heads ; and so they put wood and earth
and rubbish betwixt me and their heads.
Thus did they deafen the sound of my tread :
and least have I hitherto been heard by the most
learned.
All mankind's faults and weaknesses did they
put betwixt themselves and me : — they call it " false
ceiling " in their houses.
But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts above
their heads ; and even should I walk on mine own
errors, still would I be above them and their heads.
For men are not equal : so speaketh justice. And
what I will, they may not will ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXXIX.— POETS.
"Since I have known the body better'* — said [
Zarathustra to one of his disciples — " the spirit hath
only been to me symbolically spirit; and all the
* imperishable ' — that is also but a simile."
" So have I heard thee say once before," answered
the disciple, " and then thou addedst : ' But the
poets lie too much.' Why didst thou say that the
poets lie too much ? "
" Why ? " said Zarathustra. " Thou askest why ?
152 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IL
I do not belong to those who may be asked after
their Why.
Is my experience but of yesterday ? It is long
ago that I experienced the reasons for mine
opinions.
Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I
also wanted to have my reasons with me ?
It is already too much for me even to retain mine
opinions ; and many a bird flieth away.
And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature
in my dovecote, which is alien to me, and trembleth
when I lay my hand upon it.
But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee?
That the poets lie too much? — But Zarathustra
also is a poet.
Believest thou that he there spake the truth?
Why dost thou believe it ? "
The disciple answered : " I believe in Zarathustra."
But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled. —
Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all
the belief in myself.
But granting that some one did say in all serious-
ness that the poets lie too much : he was right —
we do lie too much.
We also know too little, and are bad learners :
so we are obliged to lie.
And which of us poets hath not adulterated his
wine ? Many a poisonous hotchpotch hath evolved
in our cellars : many an indescribable thing hath
there been done.
And because we know little, therefore are we
pleased from the heart with the poor in spirit,
especially when they are young women I
XXXIX.— POETS. 153
And even of those things are we desirous, which
old women tell one another in the evening. This
do we call the eternally feminine in us.
And as if there were a special secret access to
knowledge, which choketh up for those who learn
anything, so do we believe in the people and in
their " wisdom."
This, however, do all poets believe : that whoever
pricketh up his ears when lying in the grass or on
lonely slopes, learneth something of the things that
are betwixt heaven and earth.
And if there come unto them tender emotions,
then do the poets always think that nature herself
is in love with them :
And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper
secrets into it, and amorous flatteries : of this do they
plume and pride themselves, before all mortals !
Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and
earth of which only the poets have dreamed !
And especially above the heavens : for all Gods
are poet-symbol isations, poet-sophistications !
Verily, ever are we drawn aloft — that is, to the
realm of the clouds : on these do we set our gaudy
puppets, and then call them Gods and Supermen: —
Are not they light enough for those chairs ! — all
these Gods and Supermen ? —
Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that
is insisted on as actual I Ah, how I am weary of
the poets !
When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented
it, but was silent And Zarathustra also was silent ;
and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if it gazed
154 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 11.
into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew
breath. —
I am of to-day and heretofore, said he thereupon ;
but something is in me that is of the morrow, and
the day following, and the hereafter.
I became weary of the poets, of the old and of
the new : superficial are they all unto me, and
shallow seas.
They did not think sufficiently into the depth ;
therefore their feeling did not reach to the bottom.
Some sensation of voluptuousness and some
sensation of tedium : these have as yet been their
best contemplation.
Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth
to me all the jingle-jangling of their harps ; what
have they known hitherto of the fervour of tones ! —
They are also not pure enough for me : they all
muddle their water that it may seem deep.
And fain would they thereby prove themselves
reconcilers : but mediaries and mixers are they
unto me, and half-and-half, and impure ! —
Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and
meant to catch good fish ; but always did I draw
up the head of some ancient God.
Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one.
And they themselves may well originate from the
sea.
Certainly, one findeth pearls in them : thereby
they are the more like hard molluscs. And instead
of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime.
They have learned from the sea also its vanity :
IS not the sea the peacock of peacocks ?
Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it
XXXIX.— POETS. 155
spread out its tail ; never doth it tire of its lace-fan
of silver and silk.
Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh
to the sand with its soul, nigher still to the thicket,
nighest, however, to the swamp.
What is beauty and sea and peacock -splendour
to it ! This parable I speak unto the poots.
Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of pea-
cocks, and a sea of vanity !
Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet — should
they even be buffaloes ! —
But of this spirit became I weary ; and I see the
time coming when it will become weary of itself.
Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their
glance turned towards themselves.
Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing;
they grew out of the poets. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XL.— GREAT EVENTS.
There is an isle in the sea — not far from the
Happy Isles of Zarathustra — on which a volcano
ever smoketh ; of which isle the people, and
especially the old women amongst them, say that
it is placed as a rock before the gate of the nether-
world ; but that through the volcano itself the
narrow way leadeth downwards which conducteth
to this gate.
Now about the time that Zarathustra sojourned
on the Happy Isles, it happened that a ship anchored
at the isle on which standeth the smoking moun-
156 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 11.
tain, and the crew went ashore to shoot rabbits.
About the noontide hour, however, when the
captain and his men were together again, they
saw suddenly a man coming towards them through
the air, and a voice said distinctly : " It is time !
It is the highest time ! " But when the figure was
nearest to them (it flew past quickly, however, like
a shadow, in the direction of the volcano), then did
they recognise with the greatest surprise that it
was Zarathustra ; for they had all seen him before
except the captain himself, and they loved him as
the people love: in such wise that love and awe
were combined in equal degree.
" Behold ! " said the old helmsman, " there goeth
Zarathustra to hell ! "
About the same time that these sailors landed
on the fire-isle, there was a rumour that Zarathustra
had disappeared ; and when his friends were asked
about it, they said that he had gone on board a
ship by night, without saying whither he was going.
Thus there arose some uneasiness. After three
days, however, there came the story of the ship's
crew in addition to this uneasiness — and then did
all the people say that the devil had taken Zara-
thustra. His disciples laughed, sure enough, at this
talk ; and one of them said even : " Sooner would
I believe that Zarathustra hath taken the devil."
But at the bottom of their hearts they were all full
of anxiety and longing : so their joy was great when
on the fifth day Zarathustra appeared amongst
them.
And this is the account of Zarathustra's inter-
view with the fire-dog :
XL.— GREAT EVENTS. I $7
The earth, said he, hath a skin ; and this skin
hath diseases. One of these diseases, for example,
is called " man."
And another of these diseases is called " the fire-
dog": concerning him men have greatly deceived
themselves, and let themselves be deceived.
To fathom this mystery did I go o'er the sea ;
and I have seen the truth nak«d, verily ! barefooted
up to the neck.
Now do I know how it is concerning the fire-
dog ; and likewise concerning all the spouting and
subversive devils, of which not only old women are
afraid.
" Up with thee, fire-dog, out of thy depth ! " cried
I, " and confess how deep that depth is ! Whence
Cometh that which thou snortest up ?
Thou drinkest copiously at the sea : that doth
thine embittered eloquence betray ! In sooth, for
a dog of the depth, thou takest thy nourishment
too much from the surface !
At the most, I regard thee as the ventriloquist
of the earth : and ever, when I have heard subver-
sive and spouting devils speak, I have found them
like thee : embittered, mendacious, and shallow.
Ye understand how to roar and obscure with
ashes ! Ye are the best braggarts, and have suffi-
ciently learned the art of making dregs boil.
Where ye are, there must always be dregs at
hand, and much that is spongy, hollow, and com-
pressed : it wanteth to have freedom.
' Freedom ' ye all roar most eagerly : but I have
unlearned the belief in 'great events,' when there
is much roaring and smoke about them.
ISS THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
And believe me, friend Hollaballoo ! The greatest
events — are not our noisiest, but our stillest hours.
Not around the inventors of new noise, but around
the inventors of new values, doth the world revolve ;
inaudibly it revolveth.
And just own to it ! Little had ever taken place
when thy noise and smoke passed away. What, if
a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in
the mud !
And this do I say also to the o'erthrowers of
statues : It is certainly the greatest folly to throw
salt into the sea, and statues into the mud.
In the mud of your contempt lay the statue : but
it is just its law, that out of contempt, its life and
living beauty grow again !
With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing
by its suffering ; and verily ! it will yet thank you
for o'erthrowing it, ye subverters !
This counsel, however, do I counsel to kings and
churches, and to all that is weak with age or virtue
— let yourselves be o'erthrown ! That ye may again
come to life, and that virtue — may come to you ! — "
Thus spake I before the fire-dog : then did he
interrupt me sullenly, and asked : " Church ? What
is that?"
" Church ? " answered I, " that is a kind of state,
and indeed the most mendacious. But remain
quiet, thou dissembling dog ! Thou surely knowest
thine own species best !
Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog ; like
thee doth it like to speak with smoke and roaring
— to make believe, like thee, that it speaketh out
of the heart of things.
r
I
XL. — GREAT EVENTS. 159
For it seeketh by all means to be the most
important creature on earth, the state ; and people
think it so."
When I had said this, the fire-dog acted as if
mad with envy. " What ! " cried he, " the most
important creature on earth ? And people think it
90?" And so much vapour and terrible voices
came out of his throat, that I thought he would
choke with vexation and envy.
At last he became calmer and his panting sub-
sided; as soon, however, as he was quiet, I said
laughingly :
" Thou art angry, fire-dog : so I am in the right
about thee !
And that I may also maintain the right, hear the
^ story of another fire-dog ; he speaketh actually out
of the heart of the earth.
Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain : so
doth his heart desire. What are ashes and smoke
kand hot dregs to him !
Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud ;
adverse is he to thy gargling and spewing and grips
in the bowels !
The gold, however, and the laughter — these
doth he take out of the heart of the earth : for,
that thou mayst know it, — the heart of the earth is
ofgoldr
When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer
endure to listen to me. Abashed did he draw in
his tail, said " bow-wow ! " in a cowed voice, and
crept down into his cave. —
Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however,
hardly listened to him : so great was their eagerness
l60 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the
flying man.
" What am I to think of it ! " said Zarathustra.
** Am I indeed a ghost ?
But it may have been my shadow. Ye have
surely heard something of the Wanderer and his
Shadow ?
One thing, however, is certain : I must keep a
tighter hold of it; otherwise it will spoil my
reputation."
And once more Zarathustra shook his head and
wondered. " What am I to think of it ! " said he
once more.
" Why did the ghost cry : ' It is time ! It is the
highest time ! '
For what is it then — the highest time ? " —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XLI— THE SOOTHSAYER.
" — And I saw a great sadness come over man-
kind. Th« best turned weary of their works.
A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it •. 'All
is empty, all is alike, all hath been ! '
And from all hills there re-echoed : ' All vi empty,
all is alike, all hath been 1 '
To be sure we have harvested : but why have all
our fruits become rotten and brown ? What was it
fell last night from the evil moon ?
In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine
become, the evil eye hath singed yellow our fields
and hearts.
XLI. — THE SOOTHSAYER. l6l
Arid have we all become ; and fire falling upon
us, then do we turn dust like ashes : — yea, the fire
itself have we made aweary.
All our fountains have dried up, even the sea
hath receded. All the ground trieth to gape, but
the depth will not swallow !
* Alas ! where is there still a sea in which one
could be drowned ? ' so soundeth our plaint — across
shallow swamps.
Verily, even for dying have we become too
weary: now do we keep awake and live on — in
sepulchres."
Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak ;
and the foreboding touched his heart and trans-
formed him. Sorrowfully did he go about and
wearily ; and he became like unto those of whom
the soothsayer had spoken. —
Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while,
and there cometh the long twilight Alas, how
shall I preserve my light through it !
That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness !
To remoter worlds shall it be a light, and also to
remotest nights 1
Thus did Zarathustra go about grieved in his
heart, and for three days he did not take any
meat or drink : he had no rest, and lost his speech.
At last it came to pass that he fell into a deep sleep.
His disciples, however, sat around him in long
night-watches, and waited anxiously to see if he
would awake, and speak again, and recover from
his affliction.
And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake
L
l62 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
when he awoke ; his voice, however, came unto his
disciples as from afar :
Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my
friends, and help me to divine its meaning !
A riddle is it still unto me, this dream ; the
meaning is hidden in it and encaged, and doth not
yet fly above it on free pinions.
All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-
watchman and grave-guardian had I become,
aloft, in the lone mountain-fortress of Death.
There did I guard his coffins : full stood the
musty vaults of those trophies of victory. Out of
glass coffins did vanquished life gaze upon me.
The odour of dust-covered eternities did I
breathe: sultry and dust-covered lay my soul.
And who could have aired his soul there !
Brightness of midnight was ever around me ;
lonesomeness cowered beside her ; and as a third,
death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female friends.
Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys ; and I
knew how to open with them the most creaking of
all gates.
Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound
through the long corridors when the leaves of the
gate opened : ungraciously did this bird cry, un-
willingly was it awakened.
But more frightful even, and more heart-
strangling was it, when it again became silent and
still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant
silence.
Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time
there still was : what do I know thereof! But at
last there happened that which awoke mc.
I
XLI.— THE SOOTHSAYER. 1 63
Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like
thunders, thrice did the vaults resound and howl
again : then did I go to the gate.
Alpa ! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the
mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who carrieth his 'ashes
unto the mountain ?
And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate,
and exerted myself. But not a finger's-breadth
was it yet open :
Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart:
whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw unto me
a black coffin.
And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing
the coffin burst up, and spouted out a thousand
peals of laughter.
And a thousand caricatures of children, angels,
owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and
mocked, and roared at me.
Fearfully was I terrified thereby : it prostrated
me. And I cried with horror as I ne'er cried
before.
But mine own crying awoke me : — and I came
to myself —
Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then
was silent : for as yet he knew not the interpreta-
tion thereof. But the disciple whom he loved
most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra's hand, and
said :
" Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream,
O Zarathustra !
Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill
whistling, which bursteth open the gates of tlie
fortress of Death ?
l64 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued
malices and angel-caricatures of life ?
Verily, like a thousand peals of children's
laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres,
laughing at those night-watchmen and grave-
guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister
keys.
With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and
prostrate them : fainting and recovering will
demonstrate thy power over them.
And when the long twilight cometh and the
mortal weariness, even then wilt thou not disappear
from our firmament, thou advocate of life !
New stars hast thou made us see, and new
nocturnal glories : verily, laughter itself hast thou
spread out over us like a many-hued canopy.
Now will children's laughter ever from coffins
flow ; now will a strong wind ever come victoriously
unto all mortal weariness : of this thou art thyself
the pledge and the prophet !
Verily, they themselves didst thou dream^ thine
enemies : that was thy sorest dream.
But as thou awokest from them and camest to
thyself, so shall they awaken from themselves —
and come unto thee!"
Thus spake the disciple ; and all the others then
thronged around Zarathustra, grasped him by the
hands, and tried to persuade him to leave his bed
and his sadness, and return unto them. Zara-
thustra, however, sat upright on his couch, with an
absent look. Like one returning from long foreign
sojourn did he look on his disciples, and examined
their features ; but still he knew them not When,
XLI. — THE SOOTHSAYER. 165
however, they raised him, and set him upon his
feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye changed ;
he understood everything that had happened,
stroked his beard, and said with a strong voice :
" Well ! this hath just its time ; but see to it,
my disciples, that we have a good repast, and
without delay ! Thus do I mean to make amends
for bad dreams !
The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink
at my side : and verily, I will yet show him a sea
in which he can drown himself I" —
Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long
into the face of the disciple who had been the
dream-interpreter, and shook his head. —
XLII.— REDEMPTION.
When Zarathustra went one day over the great
bridge, then did the cripples and beggars surround
him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him:
"Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn
from thee, and acquire faith in thy teaching : but
for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is still
needful — thou must first of all convince us cripples !
Here hast thou now a fine selection, and verily, an
opportunity with more than one forelock ! The
blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run ; and
from him who hath too much behind, couldst thou
well, also, take away a little ; — that, I think, would
be the right method to make the cripples believe in
Zarathustra ! "
Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him
l66 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 11.
who SO spake: When one taketh his hump from
the hunchback, then doth one take from him his
spirit — so do the people teach. And when one
giveth the blind man eyes, then doth he see too
many bad things on the earth : so that he curseth
him who healed him. He, however, who maketh
the lame man run, inflicteth upon him the greatest
injury ; for hardly can he run, when his vices run
away with him — so do the people teach concerning
cripples. And why should not Zarathustra also
learn from the people, when the people learn from
Zarathustra ?
It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since
I have been amongst men, to see one person lacking
an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg, and that
others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the
head.
I see and have seen worse things, and divers
things so hideous, that I should leither like to
speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about
some of them : namely, men who lack everything,
except that they have too much of one thing — men
who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big
mouth, or a big belly, or something else big, —
reversed cripples, I call such men.
And when I came out of my solitude, and for
the first time passed over this bridge, then I could
not trust mine eyes, but looked again and again,
and said at last : *' That is an ear ! An ear as big
as a man ! " I looked still more attentively — and
actually there did move under the ear something
that was pitiably small and poor and slim. And
in truth this immense ear was perched on a small
XLII. — REDEMPTION. 167
thin Stalk— the stalk, however, was a mah ! A
person putting a glass to his eyes, could even
recognise further a small envious countenance, and
also that a bloated soullet dangled at the stalk.
The people told me, however, that the big ear was
not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But
I never believed in the people when they spake
of great men — and I hold to my belief that it was
a reversed cripple, who had too little of everything,
and too much of one thing.
When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the
hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback
was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn
to his disciples in profound dejection, and said :
Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as
amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings I
This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find
man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle-
and butcher- ground.
And when mine eye fleeth from the present to
the bygone, it findeth ever the same : fragments
and limbs and fearful chances — but no men !
The present and the bygone upon earth — ah ! my
friends — that is my most unbearable trouble ; and
I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer
of what is to come.
A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and
a bridge to the future — and alas ! also as it were
a cripple on this bridge : all that is Zarathustra.
And ye also asked yourselves often : " Who is
Zarathustra to us? What shall he be called by
us ? " And like me, did ye give yourselves questions
for answers.
l68 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II
Is he a promiser ? Or a fulfiller ? A conqueror ?
Or an inheritor ? A harvest ? Or a ploughshare ?
A physician ? Or a healed one ?
Is he a poet ? Or a genuine one ? An emanci-
pator? Or a subjugator? A good one? Or an
evil one?
I walk amongst men as the fragments of the
future : that future which I contemplate.
And it is all my poetisation and aspiration, to
compose and collect into unity what is fragment
and riddle and fearful chance.
And how could I endure to be a man, if man
were not also the composer, and riddle-reader, and
redeemer of chance !
To redeem what is past, and to transform every
" It was " into " Thus would I have it ! " — that only
do I call redemption !
Will — so is the emancipator and joy-bringer
called : thus have I taught you, my friends ! But
now learn this likewise : the Will itself is still a
prisoner.
Willing emancipateth : but what is that called
which still putteth the emancipator in chains ?
" It was " : thus is the Will's teeth-gnashing and
lonesomest tribulation called. Impotent towards
whathath been done — it is a malicious spectator
oraTTthat is past.
-NCTbac k ward can the Will will ; that it cannot
break time and time's desire — that is the Will's
lonesomest tribulation.
Willing emancipateth : what doth Willing itself
devise in order to get free from its tribulation and
mock at its prison ?
XLII.— REDEMPTION. 169
Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly
delivereth itself also the imprisoned Will.
That time doth not run backward — that is its
animosity : " That which was " : so is the stone
which it cannot roll, called.
And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity
and ill-humour, and taketh revenge on whatever
doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.
Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a
torturer ; and on all that is capable of suffering
it taketh revenge, because it cannot go backward.
This, yea this alone is revenge itself: the Will's
antipathy to time, and its " It was."
Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will ; and
it became a curse unto all humanity, that this
folly acquired spirit !
The spirit of revenge: my friends, that hath
hitherto been man's best contemplation ; and where
there was suffering, it was claimed there was always
penalty.
'• Penalty," so calleth itself revenge. With a
lying word it feigneth a good conscience.
And because in the wilier himself there is suffer-
ing, because he cannot will backwards — thus was
Willing itself, and all life, claimed — to be penalty !
And then did cloud after cloud roll over the
spirit, until at last madness preached : " Everything
perisheth, therefore everything deserveth to perish ! "
"And this itself is justice, the law of time — that
he must devour his children : " thus did madness
preach.
" Morally are things ordered according to justice
and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from
I/O THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
the flux of things and from the 'existence' of
penalty ? " Thus did madness preach.
" Can there be deliverance when there is eternal
justice ? Alas, unrollable is the stone, * It was ' :
eternal must also be all penalties!" Thus did
madness preach.
" No deed can be annihilated : how could it be
undone by the penalty! This, this is what is
eternal in the ' existence * of penalty, that existence
also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt !
Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and
Willing become non-Willing — : " but ye know, my
brethren, this fabulous song of madness !
Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you
when I taught you : " The Will is a creator."
All "It was" is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful
chance — until the creating Will saith thereto : " But
thus would I have it." —
Until the creating Will saith thereto : " But thus
do I will it ! Thus shall I will it ! "
But did it ever speak thus? And when doth
this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed
from its own folly ?
Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-
bringer ? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge
and all teeth-gnashing ?
And who hath taught it reconciliation with time,
and something higher than all reconciliation ?
Something higher than all reconciliation must the
Will will which is the Will to Power — : but how
doth that take place? Who hath taught it also
to will backwards?
XLII. — REDEMPTION. 17I
— But at this point in his discourse it chanced
that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like
a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his
eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances
pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear-
thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed,
and said soothed ly :
" It is difficult to live amongst men, because
silence is so difficult — especially for a babbler." —
Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, how-
ever, had listened to the conversation and had
covered his face during the time; but when he
heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with
curiosity, and said slowly :
" But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
us than unto his disciples ? "
Zarathustra answered : *' What is there to be
wondered at! With hunchbacks one may well
speak in a hunchbacked way ! "
"Very good," said the hunchback; "and with
pupils one may well tell tales out of school.
But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
his pupils — than unto himself? " —
XLIII.— MANLY PRUDENCE.
Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible !
The declivity, where the gaze shooteth down-
wards, and the hand graspeth upwards. There
doth the heart become giddy through its double
will.
Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart's double
will?
172 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
This, this is my declivity and my danger, that my
gaze shooteth towards the summit, and my hand
would fain clutch and lean — on the depth !
To man clingeth my will ; with chains do I bind
myself to man, because I am pulled upwards to
the Superman : for thither doth mine other will
tend.
And therefore do I live blindly among men, as
if I knew them not : that my hand may not entirely
lose belief in firmness.
I know not you men : this gloom and consolation
is often spread around me.
I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask :
Who wisheth to deceive me ?
This is my first manly prudence, that I allow
myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard
against deceivers.
Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how
could man be an anchor to my ball ! Too easily
would I be pulled upwards and away !
This providence is over my fate, that I have to
be without foresight.
And he who would not languish amongst men,
must learn to drink out of all glasses ; and he who
would keep clean amongst men, must know how to
wash himself even with dirty water.
And thus spake I often to myself for consolation :
"Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappi-
ness hath failed to befall thee : enjoy that as thy —
happiness ! "
This, however, is mine other manly prudence : I
am more forbearing to the vain than to the proud.
Is not wounded vanity the mother of all
XLIII.— MANLY PRUDENCE. I73
tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded,
there there groweth~up 'something better th^
pride.
That h*fe may be fair to behold, its game must
be well played : for that purpose, however, it
needeth good actors.
Good actors have I found all the vain ones : they
play, and wish people to be fond of beholding
them — all their spirit is in this wish.
They represent themselves, they invent them-
selves ; in their neighbourhood I like to look upon
life — it cureth of melancholy.
Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because
they are the physicians of my melancholy, and
keep me attached to man as to a drama.
And further, who conceiveth the full depth of
the modesty of the vain man ! I am favourable to
him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty.
From you would he learn his belief in himself;
he feedeth upon your glances, he eateth praise out
of your hands.
Your lies doth he even believe when you lie
favourably about him : for in its depths sigheth
his heart: "What am/?"
And if that be the true virtue which is uncon-
scious of itself — well, the vain man is unconscious
of his modesty ! —
This is, however, my third manly prudence: I
am not put out of conceit with the wicked by your
timorousness
I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun
hatcheth : tigers and palms and rattle-snakes.
Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood
174 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
of the warm sun, and much that is marvellous in
the wicked.
In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so
very wise, so found I also human wickedness below
the fame of it.
And oft did I ask with a shake of the head:
Why still rattle, ye rattle-snakes ?
Verily, there is still a future even for evil ! And
the warmest south is still undiscovered by man.
How many things are now called the worst
wickedness, which are only twelve feet broad and
three months long! Some day, however, will
greater dragons come into the world.
For that the Superman may not lack his dragon,
the superdragon that is worthy of him, there
must still much warm sun glow on moist virgin
forests !
Out of your wild cats must tigers have evolved,
and out of your poison-toads, crocodiles : for the
good hunter shall have a good hunt !
And verily, ye good and just ! In you there is
much to be laughed at, and especially your fear of
what hath hitherto been called " the devil ! "
So alien are ye in your souls to what is great,
that to you the Superman would h^ frightful in his
goodness !
And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee
from the solar-glow of the wisdom in which the
Superman joyfully batheth his nakedness !
Ye highest men who have come within my ken !
this is my doubt of you, and my secret laughter :
I suspect ye would call my Superman — a devil !
Ah, I became tired of those highest and best
XLIII.— MANLY PRUDENCE. 1 75
ones: from their "height" did I long to be up,
out, and away to the Superman !
A horror came over me when I saw those best ones
naked : then there grew for me the pinions to
soar away into distant futures.
Into more distant futures, into more southern
souths than ever artist dreamed of: thither, where
Gods are ashamed of all clothes !
But disguised do I want to see you, yc neighbours
and fellowmen, and well-attired and vain and
estimable, as " the good and just ; "—
And disguised will I myself sit amongst you —
that I may mistake you and myself: for that is
my last manly prudence. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XLIV.— THE STILLEST HOUR,
What hath happened unto me, my friends ? Ye
see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient,
ready to go — alas, to go away from you /
Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his
solitude: but unjoyously this time doth the bear
go back to his cave !
What hath happened unto me ? Who ordereth
this ? — Ah, mine angry mistress wisheth it so ; she
spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to
you?
Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me
my stillest hour: that is the name of my terrible
mistress.
And thus did it happen — for everything must I
176 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 11.
tell you, that your heart may not harden against
the suddenly departing one !
Do ye know the terror of him who falleth
asleep ? —
To the very toes he is terrified, because the
ground giveth way under him, and the dream
beginneth.
This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday
at the stillest hour did the ground give way under
me : the dream began.
The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my
life drew breath — never did I hear such stillness
around me, so that my heart was terrified.
Then was there spoken unto me without voice :
" Thou knowest it, Zarathustra ? " —
And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the
blood left my face : but I was silent.
Then was there once more spoken unto me with-
out voice: "Thou knowest it, Zarathustra, but
thou dost not speak it ! " —
And at last I answered, like one defiant : " Yea,
I know it, but I will not speak it ! "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice : " Thou wilt not, Zarathustra ? Is this true ?
Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance ! " —
And I wept and trembled like a child, and said :
" Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it !
Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my
power ! "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "What matter about thyself, Zarathustra!
Speak thy word, and succumb I "
And I answered : " Ah, is it my word ? Who
XLIV.— THE STILLEST HOUR. 1/7
am I? I await the worthier one ; I am not worthy
even to succumb by it."
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice : " What matter about thyself? Thou art not
yet humble enough for me. Humility hath the
hardest skin." —
And I answered : *• What hath not the skin of
my humility endured ! At the foot of my height
do I dwell : how high are my summits, no one hath
yet told me. But well do I know my valleys."
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "O Zarathustra, he who hath to remove
mountains removeth also valleys and plains." —
And I answered : " As yet hath my word not
removed mountains, and what I have spoken hath
not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but
not yet have I attained unto them."
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "What knowest thou thereof I The dew
falleth on the grass when the night is most
silent."—
And I answered : " They mocked me when I
found and walked in mine own path ; and certainly
did my feet then tremble.
And thus did they speak unto me: Thou for-
gottest the path before, now dost thou also forget
how to walk ! "
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice : " What matter about their mockery ! Thou
art one who hast unlearned to obey : now shalt
thou command !
Knowest thou not who is most needed by all?
He who commandeth great things.
M
178 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
To execute great things is difficult: but the
more difficult task is to command great things.
This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy : thou
hast the power, and thou wilt not rule." —
And I answered : " I lack the lion's voice for
all commanding."
Then was there again spoken unto me as a
whispering : "It is the stillest words which bring
the storm. Thoughts that come with doves* foot-
steps guide the world.
O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that
which is to come : thus wilt thou command, and
in commanding go foremost" —
And I answered : " I am ashamed."
Then was there again spoken unto me without
voice: "Thou must yet become a child, and be
without shame.
The pride of youth is still upon thee ; late hast
thou become young : but he who would become a
child must surmount even his youth." —
And I considered a long while, and trembled.
At last, however, did I say what I had said at first:
" I will not."
Then did a laughing take place all around me.
Alas, how that laughing lacerated my bowels and
cut into my heart !
And there was spoken unto me for the last time :
" O Zarathustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not
ripe for thy fruits !
So must thou go again into solitude : for thou
shalt yet become mellow." —
And again was there a laughing, and it fled :
then did it become still around me, as with a
XLIV.— THE STILLEST HOUR. 1/9
double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground,
and the sweat flowed from my limbs.
Now have ye heard all, and why I have to
return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept
hidden from you, my friends.
But even this have ye heard from me, who is
still the most reserved of men — and will be so!
Ah, my friends ! I should have something more
to say unto you ! I should have something more
to give unto you ! Why do I not give it? Am I
then a niggard ? —
When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these
words, the violence of his pain, and a sense of the
nearness of his departure from his friends came
over him, so that he wept aloud ; and no one knew
how to console him. In the night, however, he
went away alone and left his friends.
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
THIRD PART
I
**Ye look aloft when ye long
for exaltation, and I look down-
ward because I am exalted.
" Who among you can at the
same time laugh and be exalte4?
**He who climbeth on the
highest mountains, laugheth at
all tragic plays and tra^c
realities." — ZARATHUSTRA, I.,
••Reading and Writing "(p. 44).
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 as-
cended 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
1 84 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 lone-
somest 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 I
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
XLV. — THE WANDERER. l8S
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 ascend-
ing, 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 lonesome-
ness begun.
Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this
sombre nocturnal vexation 1 Ah, fate and sea !
To you must I now go down !
Before my highest mountain do I stand, and
before my longest wandering: therefore mOst I
first go deeper down than I ever ascended :
— Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended,
even into its darkest flood I 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.
1 86 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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.
XLV. — THE WANDERER. 187
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.
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, how-
ever, 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,
l8S THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
and whoever hath embarked with cunning sails
upon frightful s^as, —
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 twi-
light— 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 I
XLvi.— the; vision and the enigma. 189
Condemned of thyself, and to thine own stoning :
O Zarathustra, far indeed threwest thou thy stone —
but upon thyself W\\\ 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 re-
semble, 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 dejec-
tion. 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. —
190 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
" Halt, dwarf! " said I. " Either I— or thou ! I,
however, am the stronger of the two — : thou
knowest not mine abysmal thought ! // — 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 wrathfuUy, " do
not take it too lightly ! Or I shall let thee squat
where thou squattest, Haltfoot, — and I carried thee
highr
" Observe," continued I, " This Moment I From
XLVI. — THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA. 19I
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 :
192 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
— So that it excited my commiseration. Fot 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 com-
miseration 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. —
XLVI. — THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA. I93
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 trans-
figured being, a light-surrounded being, that
laughed! Never on earth laughed a man as fu
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.
XLVI I.— INVOLUNTARY BLISS.
With such enigmas and bitterness in his heart
did Zarathustra sail o'er the sea. When, however,
N
194 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 happi-
ness 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 sur-
render 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.
XLVII. — INVOLUNTARY BLISS. I95
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 com-
panion, 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
196 THUS Si-AKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 y 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
XLVII.— INVOLUNTARY BLISS. I97
about with me ! As yet have I not been strong
enough for my final lion-wantonness and play-
fulness.
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 ; for-
ward 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
blesb them before eventide with my happiness !
198 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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."
XLVHI.— 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 revela-
tion 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.
XLVIII.— BEFORE SUNRISE. I99
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
wc 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.
200 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 thub blesseth !
XLVIII. — BEFORE SUNRISE. 20I
For all things are baptized at the font of eternity,
and beyond good and evil ; good and evil them-
selves, 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 emanci-
pated 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
202 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 sun-
rise ! The day cometh : so let us part ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XLIX.— THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE.
I.
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 I
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
XLIX. — THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE. 203
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 I " — And Zara-
thustra 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 I
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 I
204 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
This is the new stillness which I have experi-
enced : 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 happi-
ness and virtue.
For they are moderate also in virtue, — because
XLIX. — THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE. 20$
they wawt comfort. With comfort, however, mode-
rate 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 back-
wards 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.
206 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 / 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, \s— 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 1 came not to revile venery
XLIX. — THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE. 207
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 : " Zara-
thustra 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 them-
selves 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 Zara-
thustra, how friend only cometh unto friend I " —
208 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, 111.
But why talk I, when no one hath mine ears I
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 sub-
missions !
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 sub-
mission. But 1 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 ^^-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.
XLIX. — THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE. 209
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 iox 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 noonttde\
Thus spake Zarathustra.
L._ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT.
Winter, a bad guest, sittsth 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 welly 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 sufiereth 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
O
210 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 especi-
ally 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 hap-
piness ; 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,—
L.— ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT. 211
— 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-roguish-
ness 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 dis-
trusters and nut-crackers : precisely from him did
they fish his best-concealed fish I
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
212 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 endura 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 Xh^ir 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
L.— ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT. 213
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 ^eat 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.
214 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 appoint-
able 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
LI.— ON PASSING-BY. 215
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 star-
less 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,
2l6 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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
LI.— ON PASSING-BY. 217
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 part-
ing, 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.
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
cany hence into my beehives !
Those young hearts have already all become old
— and not old even ! only weary, ordinary, com-
21^ THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
fortable : — 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 lone-
someness 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.
LII.~THE APOSTATES. ilp
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 be-
lieve, 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 ! —
"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 I
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-
220 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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, lurk-
ing 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 I
LII.— THE APOSTATES. 221
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 sad-
ness 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 1
Proving is difficult to him ; he layeth great stress
on one's believing him."
" Ay 1 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-
222 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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,
LIIL— THE RETURN HOME. 223
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 I
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 induigently I
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.
224 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. III.
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 ^nd
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 forsaken-
ness!
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 I
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.
LIII.— THE RETURN HOME. 225
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 suc-
ceedeth 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
226 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 mis-
judge m}fsg//th.ait I might endure ^kem, 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 t/tere !
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
LIII. — THE RETURN HOME. 227
" 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 1 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.
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.
228 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 ^y^\ 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
LTV. — THE THREE EVIL THINGS. 229
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 thingsFave FithertcTBeer^
and have been in worst and falsest repute — these
three things will I weigh humanly well.
Well ! here is my promontory, and there is the
sea — // rolleth hither unto me, shaggily and fawn-
ingly, the old, faithful, hundred -headed dog-monster
that I love! —
Well ! Here will I hold the scales over the welter-
ing sea u 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.
23b THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 stink-
ing 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.
LIV.— THE THREE EVIL THINGS. 23 1
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 leist
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^^BQ^vgL- t)ut who would call it passion,
when the height longeth to stoop fnr p^"^**«-'
Verily, nothing sick nr di^^aaed 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
232 THUS SPAKE ZARATIIUSTRA, III.
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— />^^/ 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 sub-
missive one; and there is also wisdom that is
submissive, and doggish, and pious, and obsequious.
Hateful to it alto^^ether, and a loathing, is he
who will never defend himself, he who swalloweth
LIV.— THE THREE EVIL THINGS. 233
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 prog-
nosticator, speaketh also what he knoweth : '* Be-
hold, it cometh, it is nigh, the great noontide I "
Thus spake Zarathustra.
234 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
LV.— THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY.
I.
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. —
LV. — THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY. 235
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 / 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 1 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 Con-
cealed, 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 wc are
forgiven for living.
a
236 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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
LV. — THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY. 237
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 every-
thing good, and this world the best of all. Those
do I call the all-satisfied.
All-sat isfiedness, 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
white washeth his house, betrayeth unto me a white-
washed 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 wouW 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 1 found, did I christen " parasite " : it would
not love, and would yet live by love.
238 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.*
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
land keepers 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 walk-
ing 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 shipwrecked 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 ta^e! 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 I That, however, — is my
taste :
LV. — THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY. 239
— 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
tke way — it doth not exist !
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LVI.— OLD AND NEW TABLES.
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.
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
240 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 scare-
crow 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 decay-
ing 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 I 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
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 24 1
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 *' Superm?*"," a"'^ ^^^^ "^^" '^'^ sr^mp,
thin£_that mustlbe 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 1 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
Q
242 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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.
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 ? —
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 243
Thus demandeth my great love to the remotest
ones : be not considerate of thy neighbour I Man is
something that must be surpassed.
There are many divers ways and modes of sur-
passing: see thou thereto! But only a buffoon
thinketh : " man can also be over leapt'*
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 !
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 I
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 bash-
ful things. Neither like to be sought for. One
should Jiave them, — but one should rather seek for
guilt and pain ! —
244 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
O my brethren, he who is a firstling is ever sacri-
ficed. 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. —
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 them-
selves ; their heart repeateth, their soul obeyeth :
he, however, who obeyeth, doth not listen to himself!
>^^_An_thaLJs called_evil by the good,^iiiust come
together m orckr^that-on^ truth, may be bornT
nTyTBfethren, are ye also evil enoughTfor 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 I
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 245
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 be-
lieved who then saith : " All is in flux."
But even the simpletons contradict him. " What?"
say the simpletons, " all in flux ? Planks and rail-
ings 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 plough-
ing bullock — a furious bullock, a destroyer, which
with angry horns breaketh the ice ! The ice how-
ever breaketh gangways !
O my brethren, is not everything at present in
fiux? 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
246 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 astro-
logers ; and therefore did one believe, " Everything
fs fate : thou shalt, for thou must ! "
Then again did one distrust all soothsayers and
astrologers ; and therefore did one believe, " Every-
thing is freedom : thou canst, for thou wiliest ! "
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 ^nly illusion and
not knowledge I ~ ""
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 took 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 !
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 247
II.
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 pur-
chase like traders with traders' gold ; for little
worth is all that hath its price.
248 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 adt'ltHjy-to-staind is a merit in courtiers ; and
all courtiers believe that unto blessedness after
death pertaineth — permission-io-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 guy-heads run
foremost I —
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 I
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 249
"Why should one h've? 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,
tturefore is it the more honoured. Even mould
enjioble^L — ^
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. 1, 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 back-
worldsmen !
250 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 I —
15.
Such sayings did 1 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 1 —
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 25 1
1 6.
" 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,
I 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
252 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 with-
drawn 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.
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES 253
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^hall 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, cor-
rupt 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,
254 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
— 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
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 2$$
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 Be-
coming; 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.
0 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 I
And him whom ye do not teach to fly, teach I
pray you — to fall faster I —
21.
1 love the brave : but it is not enough to be a
swordsman, — one must also know whereon to use
swordsmanship !
256 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 advan-
tage out of all kinds of rubbish !
They lay lures for one another, they lure things
out of one another, — that they call " good neigh-
bourliness." 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
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 2S7
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, how-
ever, 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
XhtxQ foUoweth therefrom — marriage-breaking !
&
258 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 revenge-
ful : 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 pledg-
ing 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.
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 259
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 ^ 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 there-
after!"
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 Id
260 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 creatorjjidite they most, him who breaketh
thrr tihlfifi and olfrvTaiiifts, th^ brpakp-Tj — hinn_th^3r
call the law-breaker.
_^od— Siey cannot create; they are
innirtg of tBe endT^ '
— 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 ?
^ Br^g^Ji u^^^reak up, Ijueg^t-^um^^he good and Justly
— O my brethren, have ye understood also this
word?
28.
Ye flee from me? Ye are frightened? Ye
tremble at this word?
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 26 1
O my brethren, when I enjoined on you t^JuMak-
up the good, and the tables of the good, then only
did 1 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 bom
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 I
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 / 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
262 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 millen-
niums 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 intoxi-
cated 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 : —
LVI. — OLD AND NEW TABLES. 263
— A sun itself, and an inexorable sun-will, ready
for annihilation in victory !
O Will, thou change of every need, my needful-
ness ! Spare me for one great victory !
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LVII.— THE CONVALESCENT.
I.
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 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 blind-
ness 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
264 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 1
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 re-
mained 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 him-
LVII.— -THE CONVALESCENT. 265
self 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 !
266 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 them-
selves: they come and hold out the hand and
laugh and flee — and return.
Everything goeth, everything returneth ; eter-
nally 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 salvatiou.
LVII.— THE CONVALESCENT. 267
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 passion-
ately 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 1 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 1 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 :
268 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
"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 sad-
ness, 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 returnalso
.Q£_the smallest man ! — that was my disgust at liTT
existence !
Ah, Disgust ! Disgust \ Disgust 1 Thus spake
Zarathustra, and sighed and shuddered ; for he
remembered his sickness. Then did his animals
prevent him from speaking further.
LVIL— THE CONVALESCENT. 269
"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 teach-
ing— how could this great fate not be thy greatest
danger and infirmity 1
270 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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,—
— 1" o speak again the word of the great noontide
LVII.— THE CONVALESCENT. 2/1
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.
LVIll.— 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
272 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 con-
temneth 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 g^ven 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 grewcst thou up for me as a vine.
O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now
LVIII.— THE GREAT LONGING. 273
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 I
Now sayest thou to me, smiling and full of melan-
choly : " 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 them-
selves 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 com-
plaining, accusing ?** Thus speakest thou to thyself;
274 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 every-
thing 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 I
LVIII.— THE GREAT LONGING. 275
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.
I.
" 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 1 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 I
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 uear, 1 love thee far; thy flight
276 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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-swifl, child-eyed sinner !
Whither puUest thou me now, thou paragon and
tomboy ? And now foolest thou me fleeing; thou
sweet romp dost annoy I
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 spring-
ing ! 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 !
LIX— THE SECOND DANCE SONG. 277
— 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 sunset 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 shep-
herd 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 ! " —
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
^7^ THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, lit.
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
LIX.— THE SECOND DANCE SONG. 279
passing, and we wept together. — Then, however,
was Life dearer unto me than all my Wisdom
had ever been. —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
One\
O man ! Take heed !
Two\
What saith deep midnight's voice indeed ?
Three \
•* I slept my sleep —
Four\
" l*'rom 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 \
*' foy- deeper still than grief can be:
Nine !
"Woe saith: Hence! Go!
280 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
Ten\
" But joys all want eternity —
Eleven \
" Want deep profound eternity I **
Twelve I
LX— THE SEVEN SEALS.
{Or the Yea and Amen Lay.)
I.
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 light-
nings 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^ 0 Eternity !
LX. — THE SEVEN SEALS. 28 1
If ever my wrath hath burst graves, shifted land-
marks, 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 bve thee, O Eternity !
If ever a breath hath come to me of the creative
breath, and of the heavenly necessity which com-
pelleth 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
382 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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 foam-
ing 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 !
LX.— THE SEVEN SEALS. 283
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 :
I f 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 I"—
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 I
For I love thee, O Eternity !
If my virtue be a dancer's virtue, and if T 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 every-
thing heavy shall become light, every body a
dancer, and every spirit a bird : and verily, that is
my Alpha and Omega ! —
284 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, III.
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, 0 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 1
For 1 love thee, 0 Eternity \
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA.
FOURTH AND LAST PART.
Ah, where in the world have
there been ^ater follies than
with the pitiful? And what in
the world hath caused more
suffering than the follies of the
pitiful ?
Woe unto all loving ones who
have not an elevation which is
above their pity I
Thus spake the devil unto lue,
once on a time: "Even God
hath his hell : it is his love for
And lately did I hear him say
these words : •* God is dead : of
his pity for man hath God died."
— Zarathustra, IL, •• The
Pitiful " (pp. 104-5).
LXI.— THE HONEY SACRIFICE.
— And again passed moons and years over
Zarathustra's soul, and he heeded it not ; his hair,
however, became white. One day when he sat on
a stone in front of his cave, and gazed calmly into
the distance — one there gazeth out on the sea,
and away beyond sinuous abysses, — then went his
animals thoughtfully round about him, and at last
set themselves in front of him.
"O Zarathustra," said they, " gazest thou out
perhaps for thy happiness?" — "Of what account
is my happiness ! " answered he, " I have long
ceased to strive any more for happiness, I strive
for my work." — " O Zarathustra," said the animals
once more, "that sayest thou as one who hath
overmuch of good things. Liest thou not in a sky-
blue lake of happiness ? " — " Ye wags," answered
Zarathustra, and smiled, " how well did ye choose
the simile ! But ye know also that my happiness
is heavy, and not like a fluid wave of water: it
presseth me and will not leave me, and is like
molten pitch." —
Then went his animals again thoughtfully around
him, and placed themselves once more in front of
him. "O Zarathustra," said they, "it is conse-
quently for that reason that thou thyself always
becometh yellower and darker, although thy hair
looketh white and flaxen? Lo, thou sittest in
288 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
thy pitch!" — "What do ye say, mine animals?"
said Zarathustra, laughing ; " verily I reviled when
I spake of pitch. As it happeneth with me, so
is it with all fruits that turn ripe. It is the honey
in my veins that maketh my blood thicker, and
also my soul stiller." — "So will it be, O Zarathustra,"
answered his animals, and pressed up to him ; " but
wilt thou not to-day ascend a high mountain?
The air is pure, and to-day one seeth more of the
world than ever." — " Yea, mine animals," answered
he, "ye counsel admirably and according to my
heart : I will to-day ascend a high mountain ! But
see that honey is there ready to hand, yellow, white,
good, ice-cool, golden-comb-honey. For know
that when aloft I will make the honey-sacrifice." —
When Zarathustra, however, was aloft on the
summit, he sent his animals home that had
accompanied him, and found that he was now
alone: — then he laughed from the bottom of his
heart, looked around him, and spake thus :
That I spake of sacrifices and honey-sacrifices,
it was merely a ruse in talking and verily, a useful
folly ! Here aloft can I now speak freer than in
front of mountain -caves and anchorites' domestic
animals.
What to sacrifice! I squander what is given
me, a squanderer with a thousand hands: how
could I call that — sacrificing !
And when I desired honey I only desired bait,
and sweet mucus and mucilage, for which even the
mouths of growling bears, and strange, sulky, evil
birds, water :
LXI.— THE HONEY SACRIFICE. 289
— The best bait, as huntsmen and fishermen
require it. For if the world be as a gloomy forest
of animals, and a pleasure-ground for all wild
huntsmen, it seemeth to me rather — and preferably
— a fathomless, rich sea ;
— A sea full of many-hued fishes and crabs, for
which even the Gods might long, and might be
tempted to become fishers in it, and casters of
nets, — so rich is the world in wonderful things,
great and small !
Especially the human world, the human sea : —
towards it do I now throw out my golden
angle-rod and say : Open up, thou human abyss !
Open up, and throw unto me thy fish and shining
crabs ! With my best bait shall I allure to myself
to-day the strangest human fish !
— My happiness itself do I throw out into all
places far and wide 'twixt orient, noontide, and
Occident, to see if many human fish will not learn
to hug and tug at my happiness ; —
Until, biting at my sharp hidden hooks, they
have to come up unto my height, the motleyest
abyss-groundlings, to the wickedest of all fishers
of men,
For this am I from the heart and from the
beginning— drawing, hither-drawing, upward-draw-
ing, upbringing; a drawer, a trainer, a training-
master, who not in vain counselled himself once
on a time : " Become what thou art ! "
Thus may men now come up to me ; for as yet
do I await the signs that it is time for my down-
going ; as yet do I not myself go down, as I must
do, amongst men.
T
2gO THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful
upon high mountains, no impatient one, no patient
one ; rather one who hath even unlearnt patience,
— because he no longer " suffereth."
For my fate giveth me time : it hath forgotten
me perhaps? Or doth it sit behind a big stone
and catch flies ?
And verily, I am well-disposed to mine eternal
fate, because it doth not hound and hurry me, but
leaveth me time for merriment and mischief; so
that I have to-day ascended this high mountain
to catch fish.
Did ever any one catch fish upon high moun-
tains ? And though it be a folly what I here seek
and do, it is better so than that down below I
should become solemn with waiting, and green and
yellow —
-;-A posturing wrath-snorter with waiting, a holy
howl-storm from the mountains, an impatient one
that shouteth down into the valleys : " Hearken,
else I will scourge you with the scourge of God ! "
Not that I would have a grudge against such
wrathful ones on that account : they are well
enough for laughter to me ! Impatient must they
now be, those big alarm-drums, which find a voice
now or never !
Myself, however, and my fate — we do not talk
to the Present, neither do we talk to the Never :
for talking we have patience and time and more
than time. For one day must it yet come, and
may not pass by.
What must one day come and may not pass by ?
Our great Hazar, that is to say, our great, remote
LXL— THE HONEY SACRIFICE. 29I
human -kingdom, the Zarathustra-kingdom nf a
thousand years
How remote may such " remoteness " be ? What
doth it concern me? But on that account it is
none the less sure unto me — , with both feet stand
I secure on this ground ;
— On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on
this highest, hardest, primary mountain-ridge, unto
which all winds come, as unto the storm -parting,
asking Where ? and Whence ? and Whither ?
Here laugh, laugh, my hearty, healthy wicked-
ness ! From high mountains cast down thy
glittering scorn-laughter! Allure for me with
thy glittering the finest human fish !
And whatever belongeth unto me in all seas, my
in-and-for-me in all things — fish that out for me,
bring that up to me : for that do I wait, the
wickedest of all fish-catchers.
Out ! out ! my fishing-hook ! In and down, thou
bait of my happiness ! Drip thy sweetest dew,
thou honey of my heart ! Bite, my fishing-hook,
into the belly of all black affliction !
Look out, look out, mine eye ! Oh, how many
seas round about me, what dawning human futures!
And above me — what rosy red stillness ! What
unclouded silence 1
LXII.— THE CRY OF DISTRESS.
The next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone
in front of his cave, whilst his animals roved about
in the world outside to bring home new food, — also
new honey : for Zarathustra had spent and wasted
292 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
the old honey to the very last particle. When he
thus sat, however, with a stick in his hand, tracing
the shadow of his figure on the earth, and reflect-
ing— ^verily ! not upon himself and his shadow, — all
at once he startled and shrank back : for he saw
another shadow beside his own. And when he
hastily looked around and stood up, behold, there
stood the soothsayer beside him, the same whom
he had once given to eat and drink at his table,
the proclaimer of the g^eat weariness, who taught :
"All is alike, nothing is worth while, the world
is without meaning, knowledge strangleth." But
his face had changed since then ; and when
Zarathustra looked into his eyes, his heart was
startled once more : so much evil announcement and
ashy-grey lightnings passed over that countenance.
The soothsayer, who had perceived what went
on in Zarathustra's soul, wiped his face with his
hand, as if he would wipe out the impression ; the
same did also Zarathustra. And when both of
them had thus silently composed and strengthened
themselves, they gave each other the hand, as a
token that they wanted once more to recognise
each other.
" Welcome hither," said Zarathustra, "thou sooth-
sayer of the great weariness, not in vain shalt thou
once have been my messmate and guest Eat
and drink also with me to-day, and forgive it that
a cheerful old man sitteth with thee at table ! " —
" A cheerful old man ? " answered the soothsayer,
shaking his head, " but whoever thou art, or wouldst
be, O Zarathustra, thou hast been here aloft the
longest time, — in a little while thy bark shall no
LXIL— THE CRY OF DISTRESS. 293
longer rest on dry land ! " — " Do I then rest on dry
land ? " — asked Zarathustra laughing. — " The waves
around thy mountain," answered the soothsayer,
"rise and rise, the waves of great distress and
affliction : they will soon raise thy bark also and
carry thee away." — Thereupon was Zarathustra
silent and wondered. — " Dost thou still hear no-
thing " continued the soothsayer : " doth it not rush
and roar out of the depth ? " — Zarathustra was silent
once more and listened : then heard he a long, long
cry, which the abysses threw to one another and
passed on ; for none of them wished to retain it :
so evil did it sound.
"Thou ill announcer," said Zarathustra at last,
" that is a cry of distress, and the cry of a man ; it
may come perhaps out of a black sea. But what
doth human distress matter to me! My last sin
which hath been reserved for me, — knowest thou
what it is called ? "
— ''Pity I" answered the soothsayer from an
overflowing heart, and raised both his hands aloft—
"O Zarathustra, I have come that I may seduce
thee to thy last sin ! "—
And hardly had those words been uttered when
there sounded the cry once more, and longer and
more alarming than before — also much nearer.
" Hearest thou ? Hearest thou, O Zarathustra ? "
called out the soothsayer, " the cry concerneth thee,
it calleth thee : Come, come, come ; it is time, it
is the highest time I " —
Zarathustra was silent thereupon, confused and
staggered ; at last he asked, like one who hesitateth
in himself: ** And who is it that there calleth me?"
294 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
" But thou knowest it, certainly," answered the
soothsayer warmly, " why dost thou conceal thyself?
It is the higher man that crieth for thee ! "
" The higher man ? " cried Zarathustra, horror-
stricken : " what wanteth he ? What wanteth he ?
The higher man ! What wanteth he here ? " — and
his skin covered with perspiration.
The soothsayer, however, did not heed Zara-
thustra's alarm, but listened and listened in the
downward direction. When, however, it had been
still there for a long while, he looked behind, and
saw Zarathustra standing trembling.
" O Zarathustra," he began, with sorrowful voice,
** thou dost not stand there like one whose happiness
maketh him giddy : thou wilt have to dance lest
thou tumble down !
But although thou shouldst dance before me, and
leap all thy side-leaps, no one may say unto me :
* Behold, here danceth the last joyous man ! '
In vain would any one come to this height who
sought him here : caves would he find, indeed, and
back-caves, hiding-places for hidden ones ; but not
lucky mines, nor treasure-chambers, nor new gold-
veins of happiness.
Happiness— how indeed could one find happiness
among such buried-alive and solitary ones ! Must I
yet seek the last happiness on the Happy Isles, and
far away among forgotten seas ?
But all is alike, nothing is worth while, no seek-
ing is of service, there are no longer any Happy
Isles ! "
Thus sighed the soothsayer ; with his last sigh,
LXIL— THE CRY OF DISTRESS. 295
however, Zarathustra again became serene and
assured, like one who hath come out of a deep chasm
into the light. " Nay ! Nay ! Three times Nay ! "
exclaimed he with a strong voice, and stroked his
beard — *' that do I know better ! There are still
Happy Isles ! Silence thereon, thou sighing sorrow-
sack !
Cease to splash thereon, thou rain-cloud of the
forenoon ! Do I not already stand here wet with
thy misery, and drenched like a dog ?
Now do I shake myself and run away from thee,
that I may again become dry : thereat mayest thou
not wonder! Do I seem to thee discourteous?
Here however is my court.
But as regards the higher man : well ! I shall seek
him at once in those forests : from thence came his
cry. Perhaps he is there hard beset by an evil beast.
He is in my domain : therein shall he receive no
scath ! And verily, there are many evil beasts
about me." —
With those words Zarathustra turned around to
depart. Then said the soothsayer : " O Zara-
thustra, thou art a rogue !
I know it well : thou wouldst fain be rid of me !
Rather wouldst thou run into the forest and lay
snares for evil beasts !
But what good will it do thee ? In the evening
wilt thou have me again : in thine own cave will I
sit, patient and heavy like a block — and wait for
thee ! "
" So be it ! " shouted back Zarathustra, as he went
away: "and what is mine in my cave belongeth
als ) unto thee, my guest !
296 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Shouldst thou however find honey therein, well !
just lick it up, thou growling bear, and sweeten thy
soul ! For in the evening we want both to be in
good spirits ;
— In good spirits and joyful, because this day
hath come to an end ! And thou thyself shalt
dance to my lays, as my dancing-bear.
Thou dost not believe this ? Thou shakest thy
head? Well! Cheer up, old bearl But I also—
am a soothsayer."
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXIIL— TALK WITH THE KINGS.
Ere Zarathustra had been an hour on his way in
the mountains and forests, he saw all at once a
strange procession. Right on the path which he
was about to descend came two kings walking,
bedecked with crowns and purple girdles, and
variegated like flamingoes : they drove before them
a laden ass. "What do these kings want in my
domain?" said Zarathustra in astonishment to
his heart, and hid himself hastily behind a
thicket. When however the kings approached
to him, he said half-aloud, like one speaking
only to himself: "Strange! Strange! How doth
this harmonise? Two kings do I see — and only
one ass ! "
Thereupon the two kings made a halt ; they
smiled and looked towards the spot whence the
LXIIL— TALK WITH THE KINGS. 297
voice proceeded, and afterwards looked into each
other's faces. "Such things do we also think
among ourselves," said the king on the right, " but
we do not utter them."
The king on the left, however, shrugged his
shoulders and answered : " That may perhaps be a
goat-herd. Or an anchorite who hath lived too
long among rocks and trees. For no society at all
spoileth also good manners."
"Good manners?" replied angrily and bitterly
the other king : " what then do we run out of the
way of? Is it not 'good manners'? Our 'good
society ' ?
Better, verily, to live among anchorites and goat-
herds, than with our gilded, false, over-rouged
populace — though it call itself ' good society.'
—Though it call itself * nobility.' But there all is
false and foul, above all the blood — thanks to old
evil diseases and worse curers.
The best and dearest to me at present is still a
sound peasant, coarse, artful, obstinate and en-
during : that is at present the noblest type.
The peasant is at present the best ; and the
peasant type should be master I But it is the
kingdom of the populace — I no longer allow any-
thing to be imposed upon me. The populace,
however — that meaneth, hodgepodge.
Populace-hodgepodge : therein is everything
mixed with everything, saint and swindler, gentle-
man and Jew, and every beast out of Noah's ark.
Good manners ! Everything is false and foul with
us. No one knoweth any longer how to reverence :
it is that precisely that we run away from. They
298 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
are fulsome obtrusive dogs ; they gild palm-
leaves.
This loathing choketh me, that we kings our-
selves have become false, draped and disguised with
the old faded pomp of our ancestors, show-pieces
for the stupidest, the craftiest, and whosoever at
present trafficketh for power.
We are not the first men — and have nevertheless
to stand for them: of this imposture have we at
last become weary and disgusted.
From the rabble have we gone out of the way,
from all those bawlers and scribe-blowflies, from
the trader-stench, the ambition -fidgeting, the bad
breath — : fie, to live among the rabble ;
— Fie, to stand for the first men among the
rabble ! Ah, loathing ! Loathing ! Loathing !
What doth it now matter about us kings ! " —
" Thine old sickness seizeth thee," said here the
king on the left, **thy loathing seizeth thee, my poor
brother. Thou knowest, however, that some one
heareth us."
Immediately thereupon, Zarathustra, who had
opened ears and eyes to this talk, rose from his
hiding-place, advanced towards the kings, and
thus began :
" He who hearkeneth unto you, he who gladly
hearkeneth unto you, is called Zarathustra.
I am Zarathustra who once said : * What doth it
now matter about kings ! ' Forgive me ; I rejoiced
when ye said to each other : ' What doth it matter
about us kings ! '
Here, however, is my domain and jurisdiction :
what may ye be seeking in my domain ? Perhaps,
LXIII. — TALK WITH THE KINGS. 299
however, ye hsive found on your way what / seek :
namely, the higher man."
When the kings heard this, they beat upon their
breasts and said with one voice : " We are
recognised !
With the sword of thine utterance severest thou
the thickest darkness of our hearts. Thou hast
discovered our distress ; for lo ! we are on our way
to find the higher man —
— The man that is higher than we, although we
are kings. To him do we convey this ass. For
the highest man shall also be the highest lord on
earth.
There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny,
than when the mighty of the earth are not also
the first men. Then everything becometh false
and distorted and monstrous.
And when they are even the last men, and more
beast than man, then riseth and riseth the populace
in honour, and at last saith even the populace-
virtue : • Lo, I alone am virtue ! * " —
What have I just heard ? answered Zarathustra.
What wisdom in kings ! I am enchanted, and
verily, I have already promptings to make a rhyme
thereon : —
— Even if it should happen to be a rhyme not
suited for every one's ears. I unlearned long ago
to have consideration for long ears. Well then !
Well now !
(Here, however, it happened that the ass also
found utterance : it said distinctly and with male-
volence, Yk-a.)
300 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
*Twas once — methinks year one of our blessed
Lord, —
DfUnk without wine, the Sybil thus deplored : —
" How ill things go !
Decline ! Decline ! Ne'er sank the world so low !
Rome now hath turned harlot and harlot-stew,
Rome's Caesar a beast, and God — hath turned Jew!"
With those rhymes of Zarathustra the kings were
delighted ; the king on the right, however, said :
" O Zarathustra, how well it was that we set out
to see thee !
For thine enemies showed us thy likeness in
their mirror : there lookedst thou with the grimace
of a devil, and sneeringly : so that we were afraid
of thee.
But what good did it do! Always didst thou
prick us anew in heart and ear with thy sayings.
Then did we say at last : What doth it matter how
he look !
We must hear him ; him who teacheth : * Ye
shall love peace as a means to new wars, and the
short peace more than the long ! '
No one ever spake such warlike words : * What
is good? To be brave is good. It is the good
war that halloweth every cause.'
O Zarathustra, our fathers' blood stirred in our
veins at such words : it was like the voice of spring
to old wine-casks.
When the swords ran among one another like
red-spotted serpents, then did our fathers become
fond of life ; the sun of every peace seemed to
LXIII.— TALK WITH THE KINGS. 3OI
them langfuid and lukewarm, the long peace, how-
ever, made them ashamed.
How they sighed, our fathers, when they saw
on the wall brightly furbished, dried-up swords!
Like those they thirsted for war. For a sword
thirsteth to drink blood, and sparkleth with
desire."
— When the kings thus discoursed and talked
eagerly of the happiness of their fathers, there
came upon Zarathustra no little desire to mock at
their eagerness : for evidently they were very
peaceable kings whom he saw before him, kings
with old and refined features. But he restrained
himself. "Well!" said he, "thither leadeth the
way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra; and this
day is to have a long evening ! At present, how-
ever, a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from
you.
It will honour my cave if kings want to sit and
wait in it: but, to be sure, ye will have to wait
long ! -^
Well! What of that! Where doth one at
present learn better to wait than at courts ? And
the whole virtue of kings that hath remained unto
them — is it not called to-day : Ability to wait ? "
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXIV.— THE LEECH.
And Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further
and lower down, through forests and past moory
bottoms; as it happeneth, however, to every one
302 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
who meditateth upon hard matters, he trod thereby
unawares upon a man. And lo, there spurted into
his face all at once a cry of pain, and two curses
and twenty bad invectives, so that in his fright he
raised his stick and also struck the trodden one.
Immediately afterwards, however, he regained his
composure, and his heart laughed at the folly he
had just committed.
" Pardon me," said he to the trodden one, who
had got up enraged, and had seated himself,
" pardon me, and hear first of all a parable.
As a wanderer who dreameth of remote things
on a lonesome highway, runneth unawares against
a sleeping dog, a dog which lieth in the sun :
— As both of them then start up and snap at
each other, like deadly enemies, those two beings
mortally frightened — so did it happen unto us.
And yet ! And yet — how little was lacking for
them to caress each other, that dog and that lone-
some one ! Are they not both — lonesome ones ! "
— "Whoever thou art," said the trodden one,
still enraged, " thou treadest also too nigh me with
thy parable, and not only with thy foot !
Lo! am I then a dog?" — And thereupon the
sitting one got up, and pulled his naked arm out
of the swamp. For at first he had lain outstretched
on the ground, hidden and indiscernible, like those
who lie in wait for swamp-game.
"But whatever art thou about!" called out
Zarathustra in alarm, for he saw a deal of blood
streaming over the naked arm, — " what hath hurt
thee ? Hath an evil beast bit thee, thou unfortunate
one?"
LXIV. — THE LEECH. 303
The bleeding one laughed, still angry. " What
matter is it to thee ! " said he, and was about to go
on. " Here am I at home and in my province.
Let him question me whoever will : to a dolt, how-
ever, I shall hardly answer."
"Thou art mistaken," ^aid Zarathustra sym-
pathetically, and held him fast ; '* thou art mistaken.
Here thou art not at home, but in my domain, and
therein shall no one receive any hurt.
Call me however what thou wilt — ( am who I
must be. I call myself Zarathustra.
Well! Up thither is the way to Zarathustra's
cave : it is not far, — wilt thou not attend to thy
wounds at my home ?
It hath gone badly with thee, thou unfortunate
one, in this life : first a beast bit thee, and then — a
naan trod upon thee ! "
When however the trodden one had heard the
name of Zarathustra he was transformed. " What
happeneth unto me ! " he exclaimed, " who pre-
occupieth me so much in this life as this one man,
namely Zarathustra, and that one animal that liveth
on blood, the leech ?
Vox the sake of the leech did I lie here by this
swamp, like a fisher, and already had mine out-
stretched arm been bitten ten times, when there
biteth a still finer leech at my blood, Zarathustra
himself!
O happiness ! O miracle ! Praised be this day
which enticed me into the swamp ! Praised be
the best, the livest cupping-glass, that at present
liveth ; praised be the great conscience-leech
Zarathustra ! " —
304 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Thus spake the trodden one, and Zarathustra
rejoiced at his words and their refined reverential
style. " Who art thou ? " asked he, and gave him
his hand, " there is much to clear up and elucidate
between us, but already methinketh pure clear day
is dawning."
" I am the spiritually conscientious one',* answered
he who was asked, " and in matters of the spirit it
is difficult for any one to take it more rigorously,
more restrictedly, and more severely than I, except
him from whom I learnt it, Zarathustra himself.
Better know nothing than half-know many
things ! Better be a fool on one's own account,
than a sage on other people's approbation ! I — go to
the basis :
— What matter it it be great or small ? If it be
called swamp or sky? A handbreadth of basis
is enough for me, if it be actually basis and ground !
— A handbreadth of basis : thereon can one stand.
In the true knowing-knowledge there is nothing
great and nothing small."
" Then thou art perhaps an expert on the leech ?
asked Zarathustra; "and thou investigatest the
leech to its ultimate basis, thou conscientious one ? "
" O Zarathustra," answered the trodden one, " that
would be something immense ; how could I presume
to do so !
That, however, of which I am master and knower,
is the brain of the leech : — that is my world !
And it is also a world ! Forgive it, however, that
my pride here findeth expression, for here I have
not mine equal. Therefore said I : * here am I at
home.'
LXIV.— THE LEECH. 305
How long have I investigated this one thing, the
brain of the leech, so that here the slippery truth
might no longer slip from me! Here is my
domain !
— For the sake of this did I cast everything else
aside, for the sake of this did everything else become
indifferent to me ; and close beside my knowledge
lieth my black ignorance.
My spiritual conscience requireth from me that
it should be so — that I should know one thing, and
not know all else : they are a loathing unto me, all
the semi-spiritual, all the hazy, hovering, and
visionary.
Where mine honesty ceaseth, there am I blind,
and want also to be blind. Where I want to know,
however, there want I also to be honest — namely,
severe, rigorous, restricted, cruel and inexorable.
Because thou once saidest, O Zarathustra : * Spirit
is life which itself cutteth into life ' ; — that led and
allured me to thy doctrine. And verily, with mine
own blood have I increased mine own knowledge ! "
— " As the evidence indicateth," broke in Zara-
thustra; for still was the blood flowing down on the
naked arm of the conscientious one. For there had
ten leeches bitten into it.
" O thou strange fellow, how much doth this very
evidence teach me — namely, thou thyself! And
not all, perhaps, might I pour into thy rigorous ear !
Well then ! We part here ! But I would fain find
thee again. Up thither is the way to my cave :
to-night shalt thou there be my welcome guest !
Fain would I also make amends to thy body for
Zarathustra treading upon thee with his feet: I
U
3o6 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
think about that. Just now, however, a cry of
distress calleth me hastily away from thee."
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXV.— THE MAGICIAN.
I..
When however Zarathustra had gone round ^a
rock, then saw he on the same path, not far below
him, a man who threw his limbs about like a
maniac, and at last tumbled to the ground on his
belly. " Halt ! " said then Zarathustra to his heart,
" he there must surely be the higher man, from him
came that dreadful cry of distress, — I will see if I
can help him." When, however, he ran to the spot
where the man lay on the ground, he found a
trembling old man, with fixed eyes ; and in spite
of all Zarathustra's efforts to lift him and set him
again on his feet, it was all in vain. The unfortunate
one, also, did not seem to notice that some one was
beside him ; on the contrary, he continually looked
around with moving gestures, like one forsaken and
isolated from all the world. At last, however, after
much trembling, and convulsion, and curling-him-
self-up; he began to lament thus :
Who warm'th me, who lov'th me still ?
Give ardent fingers !
Give heartening charcoal-warmers !
Prone, outstretched, trembling,
Like him, half dead and cold, whose feet one
warm'th —
i
LXV.— THE MAGICIAN. 307
And shaken, ah ! by unfamiliar fevers,
Shivering with sharpened, icy-cold frost-arrows,
By thee pursued, my fancy !
Ineffable! Recondite! Sore- frightening 1
Thou huntsman 'hind the cloud-banks !
Now lightning-struck by thee,
Thou mocking eye that me in darkness watcheth :
— Thus do I lie,
Bend myself, twist myself, convulsed
With all eternal torture,
And smitten
By thee, cruellest huntsman,
Thou unfamiliar — God . . .
Smite deeper !
Smite yet once more !
Pierce through and rend my heart !
What mean'th this torture
With dull, indented arrows ?
Why look'st thou hither.
Of human pain not weary.
With mischief-loving, godly flash-glances ?
Not murder wilt thou,
But torture, torture ?
For why — me torture,
Thou mischief- loving, unfamiliar God r —
Ha! Ha!
Thou stealest nigh
In midnight's gloomy hour? . , ,
What wilt thou ?
Speak!
Thou crowdst me, pressest—
Ha ! now far too closely !
308 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Thou hearst me breathing,
Thou o'erhearst my heart,
Thou ever jealous one !
— Of what, pray, ever jealous ?
Off! Off!
For why the ladder ?
Wouldst thou get in ?
To heart in-clamber ?
To mine own secretest
Conceptions in-clamber ?
Shameless one! Thou unknown one! — Thief!
What seekst thou by thy stealing ?
What seekst thou by thy hearkening ?
What seekst thou by thy torturing ?
Thou torturer !
Thou — hangman-God !
Or shall I, as the mastiffs do.
Roll me before thee ?
And cringing, enraptured, frantical,
My tail friendly — waggle !
In vain !
Goad further !
Cruellest goader !
No dog — thy game just am I,
Cruellest huntsman !
Thy proudest of captives,
Thou robber 'hind the cloud -banks , . ,
Speak finally !
Thou lightning- veiled one ! Thou unknown one !
Speak!
What wilt thou, highway-ambusher, from — me?
What wilt thou, unfamiliar — God ?
LXV.— THE MAGICIAN. 309
What?
Ransom-gold ?
How much of ransom -gold ?
Solicit much — that bid'th my pride !
And be concise — that bid'th mine other pride !
Ha! Ha!
Me — wantst thou ? me ?
— Entire? . . .
Ha! Ha!
And torturest me, fool that thou art,
Dead-torturest quite my pride ?
Give love to me — who warm'th me still ?
Who lov'th me still ?—
Give ardent fingers,
Give heartening charcoal -warmers,
Give me, the lonesomest,
The ice (ah ! seven- fold frozen ice,
For very enemies.
For foes, doth make one thirst),
Give, yield to me,
Cruellest foe,
— Thyself!
Away !
There fled he surely, •
My final, only comrade,
My greatest foe.
Mine unfamiliar —
My hangman-God I . , ,
—Nay !
Come thou back !
With all of thy great tortures I
310 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
To me the last of lonesome ones,
Oh, come thou back !
All my hot tears in streamlets trickle
Their course to thee !
And all my final hearty fervour —
Up-glow'th to thee !
Oh, come thou back,
Mine unfamiliar God ! my pain !
My final bliss !
2.
— Here, however, Zarathustra could no longer re-
strain himself; he took his staff and struck the
wailer with all his might. " Stop this," cried he to
him with wrathful laughter, " stop this, thou stage-
player! Thou false coiner! Thou liar from the
very heart ! I know thee well !
I will soon make warm legs to thee, thou evil
magician : I know well how — to make it hot for
such as thou ! "
— " Leave off," said the old man, and sprang up
from the ground, "strike me no more, O Zara-
thustra ! I did it only for amusement !
That kind of thing belongeth to mine art. Thee
thyself, I wanted to put to the proof when I gave
this performance. And verily, thou hast well de-
tected me !
But thou thyself — hast given me no small proof
of thyself: thou art hard, thou wise Zarathustra!
Hard strikest thou with thy 'truths,' thy cudgel
forceth from me — this truth ! "
— " Flatter not," answered Zarathustra, still ex-
cited and frowning, "thou stage-player from the
LXV. — THE MAGICIAN. 31I
heart ! Thou art false : why speakest thou — of
truth !
Thou peacock of peacocks, thou sea of vanity;
what didst thou represent before me, thou evil
magician ; whom was I meant to believe in when
thou wailedst in such wise?"
" The penitent in spirit^' said the old man, "it was
him — I represented ; thou thyself once devisedst
this expression —
— The poet and magician who at last turneth
his spirit against himself, the transformed one
who freezeth to death by his bad science and con-
science.
And just acknowledge it : it was long, O Zara-
thustra, before thou discoveredst my trick and lie !
Thou believedst in my distress when thou heldest
my head with both thy hands, —
— I heard thee lament 'we have loved him too
little, loved him too little ! ' Because 1 so far de-
ceived thee, my wickedness rejoiced in me."
" Thou mayest have deceived subtler ones than
I," said Zarathustra sternly. "I am not on my
guard against deceivers ; I have to be without pre-
caution : so willeth my lot.
Thou, however, — must deceive : so far do I know
thee ! Thou must ever be equivocal, trivocal, quad-
rivocal, and quinquivocal ! Even what thou hast
now confessed, is not nearly true enough nor false
enough for me !
Thou bad false coiner, how couldst thou do other-
wise ! Thy very malady wouldst thou whitewash
if thou showed thyself naked to thy physician.
Thus didst thou whitewash thy lie before me
312 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA IV.
when thou saidst : * I did so only for amusement 1 '
There was also seriousness therein, thou art some-
thing of a penitent-in -spirit !
I divine thee well : thou hast become the
enchanter of all the world ; but for thyself thou
hast no lie or artifice left, — thou art disenchanted
to thyself!
Thou hast reaped disgust as thy one truth. No
word in thee is any longer genuine, but thy mouth
is so : that is to say, the disgust that cleaveth
unto thy mouth."
—"Who art thou at all!" cried here the old
magician with defiant voice, " who dareth to speak
thus unto me, the greatest man now living ? " — and
a green flash shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But
immediately after he changed, and said sadly :
" O Zarathustra, I am weary of it, I am disgusted
with mine arts, I am not great^ why do T dissemble !
But thou knowest it well — I sought for greatness !
A great man I wanted to appear, and persuaded
many ; but the lie hath been beyond my power.
On it do I collapse.
O Zarathustra, everything is a lie in me ; but
that I collapse — this my collapsing is genuine ! " —
"It honoureth thee," said Zarathustra gloomily,
looking down with sidelong glance, "it honour-
eth thee that thou soughtest for greatness, but it
betrayeth thee also. Thou art not great.
Thou bad old magician, that is the best and the
honestest thing I honour in thee, that thou hast
become weary of thyself, and hast expressed it : * I
am not great.'
Therein do I honour thee as a penitent-in-spirit,
LXV.— THE MAGICIAN. 313
and although only for the twinkling of an eye, in
that one moment wast thou — genuine.
But tell me, what seekest thou here in my forests
and rocks? And if thou hast put thyself in my
way, what proof of me wouldst thou have ? —
— Wherein didst thou put me to the test?"
Thus spake Zarathustra, and his eyes sparkled.
But the old magician kept silence for a while ; then
said he : " Did I put thee to the test ? I — seek only^
0 Zarathustra, I seek a genuine one, a right one,
a simple one, an unequivocal one, a man of perfect
honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint of knowledge,
a great man !
Knowest thou it not, O Zarathustra? / seek
Zarathustra^
— And here there arose a long silence between
them ; Zarathustra, however, became profoundly
absorbed in thought, so that he shut his ^yts. But
afterwards coming back to the situation, he grasped
the hand of the magician, and said, full of politeness
and policy :
" Well ! Up thither leadeth the way, there is the
cave of Zarathustra. In it mayest thou seek him
whom thou wouldst fain find.
And ask counsel of mine animals, mine eagle
and my serpent : they shall help thee to seek. My
cave however is large.
1 myself, to be sure — I have as yet seen no great
man. That which is great, the acutest eye is at
present insensible to it. It is the kingdom of the
populace.
Many a one have I found who stretched and
314 THUS SPAKE ZARATMUSTRA, IV.
inflated himself, and the people cried : * Behold, a
great man ! ' But what good do all bellows do !
The wind cometh out at last.
At last bursteth the frog which hath inflated
itself too long: then cometh out the wind. To
prick a swollen one in the belly, I call good pastime.
Hear that, ye boys !
Our to-day is of the populace : who still knoweth
what is great and what is small ! Who could there
seek successfully for greatness ! A fool only : it
succeedeth with fools.
Thou seekest for great men, thou strange fool ?
Who taught ih'^'i to thee? Is to-day the time for
it? Oh, thou bad seeker, why dost thou — tempt
me?"
Thus spake Zarathustra, comforted in his heart,
and went laughing on his way.
LXVI.— OUT OF SERVICE.
Not long, however, after Zarathustra had freed
himself from the magician, he again saw a person
sitting beside the path which he followed, namely
a tall, black man, with a haggard, pale countenance :
this man grieved him exceedingly. "Alas," said
he to his heart, " there sitteth disguised affliction ;
methinketh he is of the type of the priests : what
do they want in my domain ?
What ! Hardly have I escaped from that
magician, and must another necromancer again run
across my path, —
— Some sorcerer with laying-on-of-hands, some
LXVl.— OUT OF SERVICE. $1$
sombre wonder-worker by the grace of God, some
anointed world-maligner, whom, may the devil take !
But the devil is never at the place which would
be his right place : he always cometh too late, that
cursed dwarf and club-foot ! " —
Thus cursed Zarathustra impatiently in his heart,
and considered how with averted look he might
slip past the black man. But behold, it came about
otherwise. For at the same moment had the sitting
one already perceived him ; and not unlike one
whom an unexpected happiness overtaketh, he
sprang to his feet, and went straight towards
Zarathustra.
" Whoever thou art, thou traveller," said he,
" help a strayed one, a seeker, an old man, who may
here easily come to grief !
The world here is strange to me, and remote;
wild beasts also did I hear howling ; and he who
could have given me protection — he is himself
no more.
I was seeking the last pious man, a saint and an
anchorite, who, alone in his forest, had not yet heard
of what all the world knoweth at present."
" W/tat doth all the world know at present?"
asked Zarathustra. " Perhaps that the old God no
longer liveth, in whom all the world once believed ? "
" Thou sayest it," answered the old man sorrow-
fully. "And I served that old God until his last
hour.
Now, however, am I out of service, without
master, and yet not free ; likewise am I no longer
merry even for an hour, except it be in recollections.
Therefore did I ascend into these mountains, that
3l6 THUS SPAKtf ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
I might finally have a festival for myself once more,
as becometh an old pope and church-father : for
know it, that I am the last pope ! — a festival of pious
recollections and divine services.
Now, however, is he himself dead, the most pious
of men, the saint in the forest, who praised his God
constantly with singing and mumbling.
He himself found I no longer when I found his
cot — but two wolves found I therein, which howled
on account of his death, — for all animals loved him.
Then did I haste away.
Had I thus come in vain into these forests and
mountains ? Then did my heart determine that I
should seek another, the most pious of all those
who believe not in God — , my heart determined that
I should seek Zarathustra ! "
Thus spake the hoary man, and gazed with keen
eyes at him who stood before him. Zarathustra
however seized the hand of the old pope and
r^arded it a long while with admiration.
" Lo ! thou venerable one," said he then, " what
a fine and long hand ! That is the hand of one
who hath ever dispensed blessings. Now, how-
ever, doth it hold fast him whom thou seekest, me,
Zarathustra.
It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who saith :
'Who is ungodlier than I, that I may enjoy his
teaching?'"—
Thus spake Zarathustra, and penetrated with his
glances the thoughts and arrear-thoughts of the
old pope. At last the latter began :
" He who most loved and possessed him hath now
also lost him most — ;
LXVI. — OUT OF SERVICE. 317
— Lo, I myself am surely the most godless of us
at present ? But who could rejoice at that ! " —
— " Thou servedst him to the last ? " asked Zara-
thustra thoughtfully, after a deep silence, "thou
knowest how he died ? Is it true what they say,
that sympathy choked him ;
— That he saw how man hung on the cross, and
could not endure it ; — that his love to man became
his hell, and at last his death ? "
The old pope however did not answer, but looked
aside timidly, with a painful and gloomy expression.
" Let him go," said Zarathustra, after prolonged
meditation, still looking the old man straight in
the eye.
" Let him go, he is gone. And though it
honoureth thee that thou speakest only in prais«
of this dead one, yet thou knowest as well as I who
he was, and that he went curious ways."
" To speak before three eyes," said the old pope
cheerfully (he was blind of one eye), " in divine
matters I am more enlightened than Zarathustra
himself — and may well be so.
My love served him long years, my will followed
all his will. A good servant, however, knoweth
everything, and many a thing even which a master
hideth from himself .
He was a hidden God, full of secrecy. Verily,
he did not come by his son otherwise than by secret
ways. At the door of his faith standeth adultery.
Whoever extolleth him as a God of love, doth
not think highly enough of love itself Did not
that God want also to be judge? But the loving
one loveth irrespective of reward and requital.
3l8 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
When he was young, that God out of the Orient,
then was he harsh and revengeful, and built himself
a hell for the delight of his favourites.
At last, however, he became old and soft and
mellow and pitiful, more like a grandfather than a
father, but most like a tottering old grandmother.
There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney-corner,
fretting on account of his weak legs, world-weary,
will-weary, and one day he suffocated of his all-too-
great pity."
"Thou old pope," said here Zarathustra inter-
posing, "hast thou seen that with thine eyes? It
could well have happened in that way: in that
way, and also otherwise. When Gods die they
always die many kinds of death.
Well! At all events, one way or other — he is
gone ! He was counter to the taste of mine ears
and eyes ; worse than that I should not like to say
against him.
I love everything that looketh bright and speaketh
honestly. But he — thou knowest it, forsooth, thou
old priest, tliere was something of thy type in him,
the priest-type — he was equivocal.
He was also indistinct. How he raged at us,
this wrath-snorter, because we understood him
badly ! But why did he not speak more clearly ?
And if the fault lay in our ears, why did he give
us ears that heard him badly ? If there was dirt
in our ears, well ! who put it in them ?
Too much miscarried with him, this potter who
had not learned thoroughly ! That he took revenge
on his pots and creations, however, because they
turned out badly — that was a sin against ^^f?^ taste.
LXVI.— OUT OF SERVICE. 319
There is also good taste in piety : tkts at last
said : * Away with such a God ! Better to have no
God, better to set up destiny on one's own account,
better to be a fool, better to be God oneself! ' "
— "What do I hear!" said then the old pope,
with intent ears; "O Zarathustra, thou art more
pious than thou believest, with such an unbelief!
Some God in thee hath converted thee to thine
ungodliness.
Is it not thy piety itself which no longer letteth
thee believe in a God? And thine over-great
honesty will yet lead thee even beyond good and
evil!
Behold, what hath been reserved for thee f Thou
hast eyes and hands and mouth, which have been
predestined for blessing from eternity. One doth
not bless with the hand alone.
Nigh unto thee, though thou professest to be the
ungodliest one, I feel a hale and holy odour of long
benedictions : I feel glad and grieved thereby.
Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single
night ! Nowhere on earth shall I now feel better
than with thee ! " —
** Amen ! So shall it be ! " said Zarathustra with
great astonishment ; " up thither leadeth the way,
there lieth the cave of Zarathustra.
Gladly, forsooth, would I conduct thee thither
myself, thou venerable one ; for I love all pious
men. But now a cry of distress calleth me hastily
away from thee.
In my domain shall no one come to grief; my
cave is a good haven. And best of all would I like
320 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
to put every sorrowful one again on firm land and
firm legs.
Who, however, could take thy melancholy off thy
shoulders ? For that I am too weak. Long, verily,
should we have to wait until some one re-awoke thy
God for thee.
For that old God liveth no more : he is
indeed dead." —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXVII.— THE UGLIEST MAN.
— And again did Zarathustra's feet run through
mountains and forests, and his eyes sought and
sought, but nowhere was he to be seen whom they
wanted to see — the sorely distressed sufferer and
crier. On the whole way, however, he rejoiced in
his heart and was full of gratitude. " What good
things," said he, " hath this day given me, as amends
for its bad beginning ! What strange interlocutors
have I found I
At their words will I now chew a long while as
at good com ; small shall my teeth grind and crush
them, until they flow like milk into my soul ! " —
When, however, the path again curved round
a rock, all at once the landscape changed, and
Zarathustra entered into a realm of death. Here
bristled aloft black and red cliffs, without any grass,
tree, or bird's voice. For it was a valley which all
animals avoided, even the beasts of prey, except
that a species of ugly, thick, green serpent came
LXVII. — THE UGLIEST MAN. 32 1
here to die when they became old. Therefore the
shepherds called this valley : " Serpent-death."
Zarathustra, however, became absorbed in dark
recollections, for it seemed to him as if he had once
before stood in this valley. And much heaviness
settled on his mind, so that he walked slowly and
always more slowly, and at last stood still. Then,
however, when he opened his eyes, he saw some-
thing sitting by the wayside shaped like a man, and
hardly like a man, something nondescript. And
all at once there came over Zarathustra a great
shame, because he had gazed on such a thing.
Blushing up to the very roots of his white hair, he
turned aside his glance, and raised his foot that he
might leave this ill-starred place. Then, however,
became the dead wilderness vocal : for from the
ground a noise welled up, gurgling and rattling, as
water gurgleth and rattleth at night through
stopped-up water-pipes ; and at last it turned into
human voice and human speech : — it sounded thus :
"Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Read my riddle!
Say, say ! IV/iat is the revenge on the witness ?
I entice thee back ; here is smooth ice ! See to
it, see to it, that thy pride do not here break its
legs!
Thou thinkest thyself wise, thou proud Zara-
thustra! Read then the riddle, thou hard nut-
cracker,— the riddle that I am ! Say then : who
am/.'"
— When however Zarathustra had heard these
words, — what think ye then took place in his soul ?
Pity overcame him ; and he sank down all at once,
like an oak that hath long withstood many tree-
X
322 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
fellers, — heavily, suddenly, to the terror even of
those who meant to fell it. But immediately he
got up again from the ground, and his countenance
became stern.
" I know thee well," said he, with a brazen voice,
" thou art the murderer of God ! Let me go.
Thou couldst not endure him who beheld thee^
— who ever beheld thee through and through, thou
ugliest man. Thou tookest revenge on this
witness ! "
Thus spake Zarathustra and was about to go ;
but the nondescript grasped at a corner of his
garment and began anew to gurgle and seek for
words. " Stay," said he at last —
— " Stay ! Do not pass by ! I have divined what
axe it was that struck thee to the ground : hail to
thee, O Zarathustra, that thou art again upon
thy feet !
Thou hast divined, I know it well, how the man
feeleth who killed him, — the murderer of God.
Stay ! Sit down here beside me ; it is not to no
purpose.
To whom would I go but unto thee ? Stay, sit
down ! Do not however look at me ! Honour thus
— mine ugliness !
They persecute me : now art thou my last refuge.
Not with their hatred, not with their bailiffs ;— Oh,
such persecution would I mock at, and be proud
and cheerful !
Hath not all swccess hitherto been with the well-
persecuted ones? And he who persecuteth well
learneth readily to be obsequent — when once he is —
put behind ! But it is their /z// —
LXVII.— THE UGLIEST MAN. 323
— Their pity is it from which I flee away and flee
to thee. O Zarathustra, protect me, thou, my last
refuge, thou sole one who divinedst me :
— Thou hast divined how the man feeleth who
killed him. Stay ! And if thou wilt go, thou im-
patient one, go not the way that I came. That
Wf2iy is bad.
Art thou angry with me because I have already
racked language too long ? Because I have already
counselled thee? But know that it is I, the ugliest
man,
— Who have also the largest, heaviest feet
Where / have gone, the way is bad. I tread all
paths to death and destruction.
But that thou passedst me by in silence, that thou
blushedst — I saw it well : thereby did I know thee
as Zarathustra.
Every one else would have thrown to me his alms,
his pity, in look and speech. But for that — I am
not beggar enough : that didst thou divine.
For that I am too rich, rich in what is great,
frightful, ugliest, most unutterable ! Thy shame, O
Zarathustra, honoured me !
With difficulty did I get out of the crowd of the
pitiful, — that I might find the only one who at
present teacheth that 'pity is obtrusive' — thyself,
O Zarathustra !
— Whether it be the pity of a God, or whether it
be human pity, it is offensive to modesty. And
unwillingnesstohelpjiiay bcnoblfir^than the^tue
that rushethto do so.
That however — namely, pity — is called virtue
itself at present by all petty people : — they ha\ e
324 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
no reverence for great misfortune, great ugliness,
great failure.
Beyond all these do I look, as a dog looketh over
the backs of thronging flocks of sheep. They are
petty, good-wooled, good-willed, grey people.
As the heron looketh contemptuously at shallow-
pools, with backward-bent head, so do I look at the
throng of grey little waves and wills and souls.
Too long have we acknowledged them to be
right, those petty people : so we have at last given
them power as well ; — and now do they teach that
'good is only what petty people call good.'
And * truth ' is at present what the preacher spake
who himself sprang from them, that singular saint
and advocate of the petty people, who testified of
himself : ' I — am the truth.'
That immodest one hath long made the petty
people greatly puffed up, — he who taught no small
error when he taught : * I — am the truth.'
Hath an immodest one ever been answered
more courteously ? — Thou, however, O Zarathustra,
passedst him by, and saidst : 'Nay! Nay! Three
times Nay!'
Thou warnedst against his error ; thou warnedst
— the first to do so — against pity : — not every one,
not none, but thyself and thy type.
Thou art ashamed of the shame of the great
sufferer; and verily when thou sayest : 'From pity
there cometh a heavy cloud ; take heed ye men ! '
— When thou teachest : * All creators are hard,
all great love is beyond their pity : ' O Zarathustra,
how well versed dost thou seem to me in weather-
signs !
LXVII. — THE UGLIEST MAN. 325
Thou thyself, however, — warn thyself also against
thy pity ! For many are on their way to thee,
many suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning,
freezing ones —
I warn thee also against myself. Thou hast read
my best, my worst riddle, myself, and what I have
done. I know the axe that felleth thee.
But he — had to die : he looked with eyes which
beheld everything, — he beheld men's depths and
dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness.
His pity knew no modesty : he crept into my
dirtiest corners. This most prying, over-intrusive,
over-pitiful one had to die.
He ever beheld me : on such a witness I would
have revenge — or not live myself
The God who beheld everything, and also man :
that God had to die ! Man cannot endure it that
such a witness should live."
Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra how-
ever got up, and prepared to go on : for he felt
frozen to the very bowels.
" Thou nondescript," said he, " thou warnedst me
against thy path. As thanks for it I praise mine
to thee. Behold, up thither is the cave of
Zarathustra.
My cave is large and deep and hath many
corners ; there findeth he that is most hidden his
hiding-place. And close beside it, there are a
hundred lurking-places and by-places for creeping,
fluttering, and hopping creatures.
Thou outcast, who hast cast thyself out, thou
wilt not live amongst men and men's pity ? Well
326 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
then, do like me ! Thus wilt thou learn also from
me j only the doer learngirh.
And talk first and foremost to mine animals !
The proudest animal and the wisest animal —
they might well be the right counsellors for us
both!"
Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more
thoughtfully and slowly even than before : for he
asked himself many things, and hardly knew what
to answer.
" How poor indeed is man," thought he in his
heart, " how ugly, how wheezy, how full of hidden
shame !
They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how
great must that self-love be ! How much contempt
is opposed to it !
Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath
despised himself, — a great lover methinketh he is,
and a great despiser.
No one have I yet found who more thoroughly
despised himself: even that is elevation. Alas,
was this perhaps the higher man whose cry I
heard ?
I love the great despisers. Man is something
that hath to be surpassed."
LXVni.— THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR.
When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he
was chilled and felt lonesome : for much coldness
and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so that even
his limbs be .ame colder thereby. When, how-
ever, he wandered on and on, uphill and down, at
LXVIII.— THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 327
times past green meadows, though also sometimes
over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps
an impatient brook had made its bed, then he
turned all at once warmer and heartier again.
"What hath happened unto me?" he asked
himself, "something warm and living quickeneth
me ; it must be in the neighbourhood.
Already am I less alone ; unconscious com-
panions and brethren rove around me ; their warm
breath toucheth my soul."
When, however, he spied about and sought for
the comforters of his lonesomeness, behold, there
were kine there standing together on an eminence,
whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart.
The kine, however, seemed to listen eagerly to a
speaker, and took no heed of him who approached.
When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto
them, then did he hear plainly that a human voice
spake in the midst of the kine ; and apparently all
of them had turned their heads towards the speaker.
Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the
animals aside ; for he feared that some one had
here met with harm, which the pity of the kine
would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was
deceived ; for behold, there sat a man on the ground
who seemed to be persuading the animals to have no
fear of him, a peaceable man and Preacher-on-the-
Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached.
" What dost thou seek here ? " called out Zara-
thustra in astonishment.
"What do I here seek?" answered he: "the
same that thou seekest, thou mischief-maker ! that is
to say, happiness upon earth.
328 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
To that end, however, I would fain learn of these
kine. For I tell thee that I have already talked
half a morning unto them, and just now were they
about to give me their answer. Why dost thou
disturb them ?
Except we be converted and become as kine, we
hall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.
For we ought to learn from them one thing:
ruminating.
And verily, although a man should gain the
whole world, and yet not learn one thing, rumi-
nating, what would it profit him ! He would not
be rid of his affliction,
— His great affliction : that, however, is at present
called disgust. Who hath not at present his heart,
his mouth and his eyes full of disgust ? Thou also !
Thou also ! But behold these kine ! " —
Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and
turned then his own look towards Zarathustra — for
hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine — : then,
however, he put on a different expression. " Who
is this with whom I talk ? " he exclaimed frightened,
and sprang up from the ground.
" This is the man without disgust, this is Zara-
thustra himself, the surmounter of the great disgust,
this is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart
of Zarathustra himself."
And whilst he thus spake he kissed with o'erflow-
ing eyes the hands of him with whom he spake,
and behaved altogether like one to whom a precious
gift and jewel hath fallen unawares from heaven.
The kine, however, gazed at it all and wondered.
"Speak not of me, thou strange one! thou
LXVIII.— THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 329
amiable one ! " said Zarathustra, and restrained his
affection, " speak to me firstly of thyself! Art thou
not the voluntary beggar who once cast away great
riches, —
— Who was ashamed of his riches and of the
rich, and fled to the poorest to bestow upon them
his abundance and his heart? But they received
him not."
" But they received me not," said the voluntary
beggar, " thou knowest it, forsooth. So I went at
last to the animals and to those kine."
" Then learnedst thou," interrupted Zarathustra,
" how much harder it is to give properly than to
take properly, and that bestowing well is an art —
the last, subtlest master-art of kindness."
" Especially nowadays," answered the voluntary
beggar : " at present, that is to say, when everything
low hath become rebellious and exclusive and
haughty in its manner — in the manner of the
populace.
For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth,
for the great, evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insur-
rection : it extendeth and extendeth !
Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all
benevolence and petty giving; and the overrich
may be on their guard !
Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out
of all-too-small necks : — of such bottles at present
one willingly breaketh the necks.
Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge,
populace-pride: all these struck mine eye. It is
no longer true that the poor are blessed. The
kingdom of heaven, however, is with the kine."
330 THUS SPAKE ^ARATHUSTRA, TV.
" And why is it not with the rich ? " asked Zara-
thustra temptingly, while he kept back the kine
which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one.
" Why dost thou tempt me ? " answered the other.
•' Thou knowest it thyself better even than I. What
was it drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra?
Was it not my disgust at the richest ?
— At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and
rank thoughts, who pick up profit out of all kinds
of rubbish— at this rabble that stinketh to heaven,
— At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers
were pickpockets, or carrion-crows, or rag-pickers,
with wives compliant, lewd and forgetful : — for
they are all of them not far different from harlots —
Populace above, populace below! What are
*poor' and *rich' at present! That distinction
did I unlearn, — then did I flee away further and
ever further, until I came to those kine."
Thus spake the peaceful one, and puffed himself
and perspired with his words : so that the kine
wondered anew. Zarathustra, however, kept looking
into his face with a smile, all the time the man
talked so severely — and shook silently his head.
" Thou doest violence to thyself, thou Preacher-
on-the-Mount, when thou usest such severe words.
For such severity neither thy mouth nor thine eye
have been given thee.
Nor, methinketh, hath thy stomach either : unto
it all such rage and hatred and foaming-over is
repugnant. Thy stomach wanteth softer things:
thou art not a butcher.
Rather seemest thou to me a plant-eater and a
root-man. Perhaps thou grindest corn. Certainly,
\
LXVIII— THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 33 1
however, thou art averse to fleshly joys, and thou
lovest honey."
"Thou hast divined me well," answered the
voluntary beggar, with lightened heart " I love
honey, I also grind corn ; for I have sought out
what tasteth sweetly and maketh pure breath :
— Also what requireth a long time, a day's-work
and a mouth's-work for gentle idlers and sluggards.
Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it :
they have devised ruminating and lying in the sun.
They also abstain from all heavy thoughts which
inflate the heart."
— " Well ! " said Zarathustra, " thou shouldst also
see mine animals, mine eagle and my serpent, —
their like do not at present exist on earth.
Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave : be
to-night its guest. And talk to mine animals of the
happiness of animals, —
— Until I myself come home. For now a cry of
distress calleth me hastily away from thee. Also,
shouldst thou find new honey with me, ice-cold,
golden-comb-honey, eat it !
Now, however, take leave at once of thy kine, thou
strange one ! thou amiable one ! though it be hard
for thee. For they are thy warmest friends and
preceptors ! " —
—"One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,"
answered the voluntary beggar. " Thou thyself art
good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a cow I "
"Away, away with thee! thou evil flatterer!"
cried Zarathustra mischievously, "why dost thou
spoil me with such praise and flattery-honey ? "
"Away, away from me!" cried he once more.
332 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
and heaved his stick at the fond beggar, who, how-
ever, ran nimbly away.
LXIX.— THE SHADOW.
Scarcely however was the voluntary beggar gone
in haste, and Zarathustra again alone, when he
heard behind him a new voice which called out :
" Stay ! Zarathustra ! Do wait ! It is myself, for-
sooth, O Zarathustra, myself, thy shadow ! " But
Zarathustra did not wait ; for a sudden irritation
came over him on account of the crowd and the
crowding in his mountains. "Whither hath my
lonesomeness gone ? " spake he.
" It is verily becoming too much for me ; these
mountains swarm ; my kingdom is no longer of
this world ; I require new mountains.
My shadow calleth me? What matter about
my shadow I Let it run after me ! I — run away
from it."
Thus spake Zarathustra to his heart and ran
away. But the one behind followed after him, so
that immediately there were three runners, one
after the other — namely, foremost the voluntary
beggar, then Zarathustra, and thirdly, and hind-
most, his shadow. But not long had they run thus
when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly,
and shook off with one jerk all his irritation and
detestation.
" What ! " said he, " have not the most ludicrous
things always happened to us old anchorites and
saints ?
Verily, my folly hath grown big in the moun-
LXIX.— THE SHADOW. 333
tains ! Now do I hear six old fools' legs rattling
behind one another !
But doth Zarathustra need to be frightened by
his shadow? Also, methinketh that after all it
hath longer legs than mine."
Thus spake Zarathustra, and, laughing with eyes
and entrails, he stood still and turned round
quickly — and behold, he almost thereby threw his
shadow and follower to the ground, so closely had
the latter followed at his heels, and so weak was
he. For when Zarathustra scrutinised him with
his glance he was frightened as by a sudden
apparition, so slender, swarthy, hollow and worn-
out did this follower appear.
" Who art thou ? " asked Zarathustra vehemently,
"what doest thou here? And why callest thou
thyself my shadow ? Thou art not pleasing unto
me."
" Forgive me," answered the shadow, " that it is
I ; and if 1 please thee not — well, O Zarathustra !
therein do I admire thee and thy good taste.
A wanderer am I, who have walked long at thy
heels ; always on the way, but without a goal, also
without a home : so that verily, I lack little of being
the eternally Wandering Jew, except that I am not
eternal and not a Jew.
What ? Must I ever be on the way ? Whirled
by every wind, unsettled, driven about? O earth,
thou hast become too round for me !
On every surface have I already sat, like tired
dust have I fallen asleep on mirrors and window-
panes: everything taketh from me, nothing giveth ;
I become thin — I am almost equal to a shadow.
334 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and
hie longest ; and though I hid myself from thee,
I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou
hast sat, there sat I also.
With thee have I wandered about in the re-
motest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that
voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden,
all the worst and the furthest : and if there be any-
thing of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear
of any prohibition.
With thee have I broken up whatever my heart
revered ; all boundary-stones and statues have I
o'erthrown ; the most dangerous wishes did I
pursue, — verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and
worths and in great names. When the devil
casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away ?
It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps — skin.
* Nothing is true, all is permitted ' : so said I to
myself Into the coldest water did I plunge with
head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand there
naked on that account, like a red crab !
Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my
shame and all my belief in the good ! Ah, where
is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the
innocence of the good and of their noble lies !
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of
truth : then did it kick me on the face. Some-
times I meant to lie, and behold ! then only did
I hit— the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me : now it
doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth
LXIX. — THE SHADOW. 335
any longer that I love, — how should I still love
myself?
• To live as I incline, or not to live at all ' : so do
I wish ; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas !
how have / still — inclination ?
Have /—still a goal ? A haven towards which my
sail is set ?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth
whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and
a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me ? A heart weary and
flippant ; an unstable will ; fluttering wings ; a
broken backbone.
This seeking for my home : O Zarathustra, dost
thou know that this seeking hath been my home-
sickening ; it eateth me up.
• Where is — my home?' For it do I ask and
seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O
eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal
— in-vain I"
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's coun-
tenance lengthened at his words. " Thou art my
shadow ! " said he at last sadly.
"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and
wanderer ! Thou hast had a bad day : see that a
still worse evening doth not overtake thee !
To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last
even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how
captured criminals sleep ? They sleep quietly, they
enjoy their new security.
Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture
thee, a hard, rigorous delusion ! For now every-
336 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
thing that is narrow and fixed seduceth and
tempteth thee.
Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas, how wilt thou
forego and forget that loss ? Thereby — hast thou
also lost thy way !
Thou poor rover and rambler, thou tired butter-
fly ! wilt thou have a rest and a home this evening ?
Then go up to my cave !
Thither leadeth the way to my cave. And now
will I run quickly away from thee again. Already
lieth as it were a shadow upon me.
I will run alone, so that it may again become
bright around me. Therefore must I still be a
long time merrily upon my legs. In the evening,
however, there will be — dancing with me ! "
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXX.— NOONTIDE.
— And Zarathustra ran and ran, but he found no
one else, and was alone and ever found himself
again ; he enjoyed and quaffed his solitude, and
thought of good things — for hours. About the
hour of noontide, however, when the sun stood
exactly over Zarathustra's head, he passed an old,
bent and gnarled tree, which was encircled round
by the ardent love of a vine, and hidden from itself ;
from this there hung yellow grapes in abundance,
confronting the wanderer. Then he felt inclined
to quench a little thirst, and to break off for him-
self a cluster of grapes. When, however, he had
already his arm outstretched for that purpose, he
LXX.— NOONTIDE. 33;
felt still more inclined for something else — namely,
to lie down beside the tree at the hour of perfect
noontide and sleep.
This Zarathustra did ; and no sooner had he
laid himself on the ground in the stillness and
secrecy of the variegated grass, than he had for-
gotten his little thirst, and fell asleep. For as the
proverb of Zarathustra saith : " One thing is more
necessary than the other." Only that his eyes
remained open : — for they never grew weary of
viewing and admiring the tree and the love of the
vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra spake
thus to his heart :
" Hush ! Hush ! Hath not the world now be-
come perfect ? What hath happened unto me ?
As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon par-
queted seas, light, feather-light, so— danceth sleep
upon me.
No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul
awake. Light is it, verily, feather- light.
It persuadeth me, I know not how, it toucheth me
inwardly with a caressing hand, it constraineth me.
Yea, it constraineth me, so that my soul stretcheth
itself out : —
— How long and weary it becometh, my strange
soul ! Hath a seventh-day evening come to it pre-
cisely at noontide? Hath it already wandered
too long, blissfully, among good and ripe things ?
It stretcheth itself out, long — longer ! it lieth still,
my strange soul. Too many good things hath it
already tasted ; this golden sadness oppresseth it,
it distorteth its mouth.
Y
338 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
— As a ship that putteth into the calmest
cove : — it now draweth up to the land, weary of long
voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more
faithful ?
As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the
shore : — then it sufficeth for a spider to spin its
thread from the ship to the land. No stronger
ropes are required there.
As such a weary ship in the calmest cove, so do
I also now repose, nigh to the earth, faithful, trust-
ing, waiting, bound to it with the lightest threads.
O happiness ! O happiness ! Wilt thou perhaps
sing, O my soul? Thou liest in the grass. But
this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd
playeth his pipe.
Take care ! Hot noontide sleepeth on the fields.
Do not sing ! Hush ! The world is perfect.
Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul ! Do not
even whisper ! Lo — hush ! The old noontide
sleepeth, it moveth its mouth : doth it not just now
drink a drop of happiness —
— An old brown drop of golden happiness,
golden wine? Something whisketh over it, its
happiness laugheth. Thus — laugheth a God.
Hush I—
— * For happiness, how little sufficeth for happi-
ness ! ' Thus spake I once and thought myself
wise. But it was a blasphemy : that have I now
learned. Wise fools speak better.
The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the
lightest thing, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a whisk,
an eye-glance — little maketh up the best happiness.
Hush !
LXX. — NOONTIDE. 339
— What hath befallen me : Hark I Hath time
flown away? Do I not fall? Have I not fallen
— hark ! into the well of eternity ?
— What happeneth to me ? Hush I It stingeth
me — alas — to the heart ? To the heart ! Oh, break
up, break up, my heart, after such happiness, after
such a sting !
— What ? Hath not the world just now become
perfect? Round and ripe? Oh, for the golden
round ring — whither doth it fly? Let me run
after it ! Quick !
Hush — — " (and here Zarathustra stretched
himself, and felt that he was asleep.)
" Up ! " said he to himself, " thou sleeper ! Thou
noontide sleeper ! Well then, up, ye old legs ! It
is time and more than time ; many a good stretch
of road is still awaiting you —
Now have ye slept your fill ; for how long a time ?
A half-eternity! Well then, up now, mine old
heart! For how long after such a sleep mayest
thou — remain awake ? "
(But then did he fall asleep anew, and his soul
spake against him and defended itself, and lay down
again) — " Leave me alone ! Hush ! Hath not the
world just now become perfect ? Oh, for the golden
round ball ! "—
" Get up," said Zarathustra, " thou little thief,
thou sluggard! What! Still stretching thyself,
yawning, sighing, fallmg into deep wells?
Who art thou then, O my soul ! " (and here he
became frightened, for a sunbeam shot down from
heaven upon his face.)
" O heaven above me," said he sighing, and sat
340 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
upright, "thou gazest at me? Thou hearkenest
unto my strange soul ?
When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell
down upon all earthly things, — when wilt thou
drink this strange soul —
— When, thou well of eternity ! thou joyous,
awful, noontide abyss ! when wilt thou drink my
soul back into thee ? "
Thus spake Zarathustra, and rose from his couch
beside the tree, as if awakening from a strange
drunkenness : and behold ! there stood the sun still
exactly above his head. One might, however, rightly
infer therefrom that Zarathustra had not then
slept long.
LXXL— THE GREETING.
It was late in the afternoon only when Zarathus-
tra, after long useless searching and strolling about,
again came home to his cave. When, however, he
stood over against it, not more than twenty paces
therefrom, the thing happened which he now least
of all expected : he heard anew the great cry of
distress. And extraordinary! this time the cry
came out of his own cave. It was a long, manifold,
peculiar cry, and Zarathustra plainly distinguished
that it was composed of many voices : although
heard at a distance it might sound like the cry out
of a single mouth.
Thereupon Zarathustra rushed forward to his
cave, and behold ! what a spectacle awaited him
after that concert! For there did they all sit
LXXI. — THE GREETING.
together whom he had passed during the day : the
king on the right and the king on the left, the old
magician, the pope, the voluntary beggar, the
shadow, the intellectually conscientious one, the
sorrowful soothsayer, and the ass ; the ugliest man,
however, had set a crown on his head, and had put
round him two purple girdles, — for he liked, like all
ugly ones, to disguise himself and play the hand-
some person. In the midst, however, of that
sorrowful company stood Zarathustra's eagle, ruffled
and disquieted, for it had been called upon to
answer too much for which its pride had not any
answer ; the wise serpent however hung round its
neck.
All this did Zarathustra behold with great
astonishment ; then however he scrutinised each
individual guest with courteous curiosity, read their
souls and wondered anew. In the meantime the
assembled ones had risen from their seats, and
waited with reverence for Zarathustra to speak.
Zarathustra however spake thus :
" Ye despairing ones ! Ye strange ones ! So it
vf 2iS your cry of distress that I heard ? And now do
I know also where he is to be sought, whom I have
sought for in vain to-day : the higher man — :
— In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man !
But why do I wonder ! Have not I myself allured
him to me by honey-offerings and artful lure-calls
of my happiness ?
But it seemeth to me that ye are badly adapted
for company : ye make one another's hearts fretful,
ye that cry for help, when ye sit here together? There
is one that must first come,
342 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
— One who will make you laugh once more, a
good jovial buffoon, a dancer, a wind, a wild romp,
some old fool : — what think ye ?
Forgive me, however, ye despairing ones, for
speaking such trivial words before you, unworthy,
verily, of such guests ! But ye do not divine what
maketh my heart wanton : —
— Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it
me! For every one becometh courageous who
beholdeth a despairing one. To encourage a
despairing one — every one thinketh himself strong
enough to do so.
To myself have ye given this power, — a good
gift, mine honourable guests ! An excellent guest's-
present! Well, do not then upbraid when I also
offer you something of mine.
This is mine empire and my dominion : that
which is mine, however, shall this evening and to-
night be yours. Mine animals shall serve you : let
my cave be your resting-place !
At house and home with me shall no one despair :
in my purlieus do I protect every one from his wild
beasts. And that is the first thing which I offer
you : security !
The second thing, however, is my little finger.
And when ye have that, then take the whole hand
also, yea, and the heart with it! Welcome here,
welcome to you, my guests ! "
Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed with love
and mischief After this greeting his guests bowed
once more and were reverentially silent ; the king
on the right, however, answered him in their name.
" O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast
LXXL— THE GREETING. 343
given us thy hand and thy greeting, we recognise
thee as Zarathustra. Thou hast humbled thyself
before us ; almost hast thou hurt our reverence — :
— Who however could have humbled himself as
thou hast done, with such pride? That uplifteth
us ourselves ; a refreshment is it, to our eyes and
hearts.
To behold this, merely, gladly would we ascend
higher mountains than this. For as eager beholders
have we come ; we wanted to see what brighteneth
dim eyes.
And lo ! now is it all over with our cries of
distress. Now are our minds and hearts open and
enraptured. Little is lacking for our spirits to
become wanton.
There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth
more pleasingly on earth than a lofty, strong will : it
is the finest growth. An entire landscape refresheth
itself at one such tree.
To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra,
which groweth up like thee — tall, silent, hardy,
solitary, of the best, supplest wood, stately, —
— In the end, however, grasping out for its
dominion with strong, green branches, asking
weighty questions of the wind, the storm, and
whatever is at home on high places ;
— Answering more weightily, a commander, a
victor ! Oh ! who should not ascend high moun-
tains to behold such growths ?
At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-
constituted also refresh themselves ; at thy look
even the wavering become steady and heal their
hearts.
344 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree
do many eyes turn to-day ; a great longing hath
arisen, and many have learned to ask : * Who is
Zarathustra ? '
And those into whose ears thou hast at any time
dripped thy song and thy honey: all the hidden
ones, the lone-dwellers and the twain-dwellers, have
simultaneously said to their hearts :
'Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer
worth while to live, everything is indifferent, every-
thing is useless: or else — we must live with
Zarathustra ! '
'Why doth he not come who hath so long
announced himself? ' thus do many people ask ;
'hath solitude swallowed him up? Or should
we perhaps go to him ? '
Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself
becometh fragile and breaketh open, like a grave
that breaketh open and can no longer hold its dead.
Everywhere one seeth resurrected ones.
Now do the waves rise and rise around thy
mountain, O Zarathustra. And however high be
thy height, many of them must rise up to thee : thy
boat shall not rest much longer on dry ground.
And that we despairing ones have now come
into thy cave, and already no longer despair : — it
is but a prognostic and a presage that better ones
are on the way to thee, —
— For they themselves are on the way to thee,
the last remnant of God among men — that is to
say, all the men of great longing, of great loathing,
of great satiety,
— All who do not want to live unless they learn
LXXI. — THE GREETING. 345
again to hope — unless they learn from thee, O Zara-
thustra, the great hope ! "
Thus spake the king on the right, and seized
the hand of Zarathustra in order to kiss it ; but
Zarathustra checked his veneration, and stepped
back frightened, fleeing as it were, silently and
suddenly into the far distance. After a little while,
however, he was again at home with his guests,
looked at them with clear scrutinising eyes, and
said :
" My guests, ye higher men, I will speak plain
language and plainly with you. It is not for you
that I have waited here in these mountains."
("'Plain language and plainly? ' Good God ! " said
here the king on the left to himself ; " one seeth he
doth not know the good Occidentals, this sage out
of the Orient !
But he meaneth * blunt language and bluntly ' —
well ! That is not the worst taste in these days ! ")
" Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men," con-
tinued Zarathustra ; " but for me — ye are neither
high enough, nor strong enough.
For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which
is now silent in me, but will not always be silent.
And if ye appertain to me, still it is not as my
right arm.
For he who himself standeth, like you, on sickly
and tender legs, wisheth above all to be treated
indulgently, whether he be conscious of it or hide it
from himself
My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat
indulgently, / do not treat my warriors indulgently :
how then could ye be fit for my warfare ?
34^ THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
With you I should spoil all my victories. And
many of you would tumble over if ye but heard the
loud beating of my drums.
Moreover, ye are not sufficiently beautiful and
well-born for me. I require pure, smooth mirrors
for my doctrines ; on your surface even mine own
likeness is distorted.
On your shoulders presseth many a burden,
many a recollection ; many a mischievous dwarf
squatteth in your corners. There is concealed
populace also in you.
And though ye be high and of a higher type,
much in you is crooked and misshapen. There is
no smith in the world that could hammer you
right and straight for me.
Ye are only bridges : may higher ones pass over
upon you ! Ye signify steps : so do not upbraid
him who ascendeth beyond you into his height !
Out of your seed there may one day arise for
me a genuine son and perfect heir : but that time
is distant. Ye yourselves are not those unto whom
my heritage and name belong.
Not for you do I wait here in these mountains ;
not with you may I descend for the last time. Ye
have come unto me only as a presage that higher
ones are on the way to me, —
— Not the men of great longing, of great
loathing, of great satiety, and that which ye call
the remnant of God ;
— Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For others
do I wait here in these mountains, and will not
lift my foot from thence without them ;
— For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter
LXXI.— THE GREETING. 347
ones, merrier ones, for such as are built squarely
in body and soul : laughing lions must come !
O my guests, ye strange ones — have ye yet
heard nothing of my children? And that they
are on the way to me ?
Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy
Isles, of my new beautiful race, — why do ye not
speak unto me thereof?
This guests'-present do I solicit of your love,
that ye speak unto me of my children. For them
am I rich, for them I became poor : what have I
not surrendered,
— What would I not surrender that I might
have one thing : these children, this living planta-
tion, these life-trees of my will and of my highest
hope!"
Thus spake Zarathustra, and stopped suddenly
in his discourse : for his longing came over him,
and he closed his eyes and his mouth, because of
the agitation of his heart. And all his guests also
were silent, and stood still and confounded : except
only that the old soothsayer made signs with his
hands and his gestures.
LXXII— THE SUPPER.
For at this point the soothsayer interrupted the
greeting of Zarathustra and his guests : he pressed
forward as one who had no time to lose, seized
Zarathustra's hand and exclaimed : " fiut Zara-
thustra !
348 THUS SPAKE ZARATHU9TRA, IV.
One thing is more necessary than the other, so
sayest thou thyself: well, one thing is now more
necessary unto me than all others.
A word at the right time : didst thou not invite
me to table ? And here are many who have made
long journeys. Thou dost not mean to feed us
merely with discourses ?
Besides, all of you have thought too much about
freezing, drowning, suffocating, and other bodily
dangers : none of you, however, have thought of my
danger, namely, perishing of hunger — "
(Thus spake the soothsayer. When Zarathustra's
animals, however, heard these words, they ran away
in terror. For they saw that all they had brought
home during the day would not be enough to fill
the one soothsayer.)
" Likewise perishing of thirst," continued the
soothsayer, " And although I hear water splash-
ing here like words of wisdom — that is to say,
plenteously and unweariedly, I — want wine !
Not every one is a born water-drinker like
Zarathustra. Neither doth water suit weary and
withered ones : we deserve wine — it alone giveth
immediate vigour and improvised health ! "
On this occasion, when the soothsayer was
longing for wine, it happened that the king on the
left, the silent one, also found expression for once.
" We took care," said he, "about wine, I, along
with my brother the king on the right : we have
enough of wine, — a whole ass-load of it. So there
is nothing lacking but bread."
" Bread," replied Zarathustra laughing when he
spake, ** it is precisely bread that anchorites have
LXXII.— THE SUPPER. 349
not. But man doth not live by bread alone, but
also by the flesh of good lambs, of which I have
two:
— These shall we slaughter quickly, and cook
spicily with sage : it is so that I like them. And
there is also no lack of roots and fruits, good
enough even for the fastidious and dainty, — nor of
nuts and other riddles for cracking.
Thus will we have a good repast in a little while.
But whoever wish to eat with us must also give a
hand to the work, even the kings. For with Zara-
thustra even a king may be a cook."
This proposal appealed to the hearts of all of
them, save that the voluntary beggar objected to
the flesh and wine and spices.
"Just hear this glutton Zarathustra ! " said he
jokingly: "doth one go into caves and high
mountains to make such repasts ?
Now indeed do I understand what he once taught
us : • Blessed be moderate poverty ! ' And why he
wisheth to do away with beggars."
** Be of good cheer," replied Zarathustra, " as I am.
Abide by thy customs, thou excellent one : grind
thy corn, drink thy water, praise thy cooking, — if
only it make thee glad !
I am a law only for mine own ; I am not a law
for all. He, however, who belongeth unto me
must be strong of bone and light of foot, —
— Joyous in fight and feast, no sulker, no John o*
Dreams, ready for the hardest task as for the feast,
healthy and hale.
The best belongeth unto mine and me; and if
it be not given us, then do we take it : — the best
350 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
food, the purest sky, the strongest thoughts, the
fairest women ! " —
Thus spake Zarathustra ; the king on the right
however answered and said : " Strange ! Did one
ever hear such sensible things out of the mouth
of a wise man ?
And verily, it is the strangest thing in a wise
man, if over and above, he be still sensible, and not
an ass."
Thus spake the king on the right and wondered ;
the ass however, with ill-will, said Ye-a to his
remark. This however was the beginning of that
long repast which is called " The Supper " in the
history-books. At this there was nothing else
spoken of but the higher man.
LXXIIL— THE HIGHER MAN.
When I came unto men for the first time, then
did I commit the anchorite folly, the great folly : I
appeared on the market-place.
And when I spake unto all, I spake unto none.
In the evening, however, rope-dancers were my
companions, and corpses ; and I myself almost a
corpse.
With the new morning, however, there came unto
me a new truth : then did I learn to say : " Of what
account to me are market-place and populace and
populace-noise and long populace-cars ! "
Ye higher men, learn this from me: On the
LXXIII.— THE HIGHER MAN. 35 1
market-place no one believeth in higher men. But
if ye will speak there, very well ! The populace,
however, blinketh : " We are all equal."
**Ye higher men," — so blinketh the populace —
" there are no higher men, we are all equal ; man
is man, before God — we are all equal ! "
Before God ! — Now, however, this God hath
died. Before the populace, however, we will not
be equal. Ye higher men, away from the market-
place 1
2.
Before God ! — Now however this God hath died !
Ye higher men, this God was your greatest danger.
Only since he lay in the grave have ye again
arisen. Now only cometh the great noontide, now
only doth the higher man become — master !
Have ye understood this word, O my brethren ?
Ye are frightened : do your hearts turn giddy ?
Doth the abyss here yawn for you? Doth the
hell-hound here yelp at you ?
Well ! Take heart ! ye higher men ! Now
only travaileth the mountain of the human future.
God hath died : now do we desire — the Superman
to live.
3.
The most careful ask to-day : ** How is man to
be maintained?" Zarathustra however asketh, as the
first and only one : " How is man to be surpassed?''
The Superman, I have at heart ; that is the first
and only thing to me — and not man : not the
neighbour, not the poorest, not the sorriest, not the
best—
352 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. IV.
O my brethren, what I can love in man is that
he is an over-going and a down-going. And also in
you there is much that maketh me love and hope.
In that ye have despised, ye higher men, that
maketh me hope. For the great despisers are the
great reverers.
In that ye have despaired, there is much
to honour. For ye have not learned to submit
yourselves, ye have not learned petty policy.
For to-day have the petty people become master :
they all preach submission and humility and policy
and diligence and consideration and the long et
cetera of petty virtues.
Whatever is of the effeminate type, whatever
originateth from the servile type, and especially
the populace-mishmash : — that wisheth now to be
master of all human destiny — O disgust ! Disgust !
Disgust !
That asketh and asketh and never tireth : " How
is man to maintain himself best, longest, most
pleasantly?" Thereby— are they the masters of
to-day.
These masters of to-day — surpass them. O my
brethren— these petty people : they arg^eSuper-
.^nan's greatest danger ! ^
ouTpass7 ychTgHeTmen, the petty virtues, t;}ie
ftettypoHcy^ne sand-grain consideratenessTth^
-aQtlin_ tmi^ry, the pitiable comfortableness, the
_^ happiness of the greatest number "— !
And rather despair than submit yourselves.
And verily, I love you, because ye know not
to-day how to live, ye higher men ! For thus do
ye live — best I
LXXIII.— THE HIGHER MAN. 353
4.
Have ye courage, O my brethren ? Are ye stout-
hearted? Not the courage before witnesses, but
anchorite and eagle courage, which not even a God
any longer beholdeth ?
Cold souls, mules, the blind and the drunken, I
do not call stout-hearted. He hath heart who
knoweth fear, but vanquisheth it; who seeth the
abyss, but with pride.
He who seeth the abyss, but with eagle's eyes,—
he who with eagle's talons graspeth the abyss : he
hath courage.
5.
" Man is evil " — so said to me for consolation, all
the wisest ones. Ah, if only it be still true to-day !
For the evil is man's best force.
Man niust^bec<MPej3etter and eyiler3;rSo do I_
t^aHVThfi^yjjest is necessaryjbr the Superman's
•Sest _
It may have been well for the preacher of the
petty people to suffer and be burdened by men's
sin. I, however, rejoice in great sin as my great
consolation. —
Such things, however, are not said for long ears.
Every word, also, is not suited for every mouth.
These are fine, far-away things : at them sheep's
claws shall not grasp !
6.
Ye higher men, think ye that I am here to put
right what ye have put wrong ?
Or that I wished henceforth to make snugger
Z
354 THUS SPAKE 2ARATHUSTRA, IV.
couches for you sufferers? Or show you restless,
miswandering, misclimbing ones, new and easier
footpaths ?
Nay ! Nay ! Three times Nay ! Always more,
always better ones of your type shall succumb, —
for ye shall always have it worse and harder. Thus
only —
— Thus only groweth man aloft to the height
where the lightning striketh and shattereth him :
high enough for the lightning !
Towards the few, the long, the remote go forth
my soul and my seeking : of what account to me
are your many little, short miseries !
Ye do not yet suffer enough for me ! For ye
suffer from yourselves, ye havF not yet surtered
from man. Ye would lie if ye spake otherwise!
None of you suffereth from what / have
suffered.
7.
It is not enough for me that the lightning no
longer doeth harm. I do not wish to conduct it
away : it shall learn — to work for me. —
My wisdom hath accumulated long like a cloud,
it becometh stiller and darker. So doeth all wisdom
which shall one day bear lightnings. —
Unto these men of to-day will I not be lights nor
be called light. Them — will I blind : lightning of
my wisdom ! put out their eyes !
8.
Do not will anything beyond your power : there
is a bad falseness in those who will beyond their
power.
LXXIIT— THE HIGHER MAN. 355
Especially when they will great things! For
they awaken distrust in great things, these subtle
false-coiners and stage-players : —
— Until at last they are false towards themselves,
squint-eyed, whited cankers, glossed over with
strong words, parade virtues and brilliant false
deeds.
Take good care there, ye higher men ! For
nothing is more precious to me, and rarer, than
honesty.
Is this to-day not that of the populace? The
populace however knoweth not what is great and
what is small, what is straight and what is honest :
it is innocently crooked, it ever lieth.
9.
Have a good distrust to-day, ye higher men, ye
enheartened ones! Ye open-hearted ones! And
keep your reasons secret ! For this to-day is that
of the populace.
What the populace once learned to believe
without reasons, who could — refute it to them
by means of reasons ?
And on the market-place one convinceth with
gestures. But reasons make the populace dis-
trustful.
And when truth hath once triumphed there, then
ask yourselves with good distrust : " What strong
error hath fought for it ? "
Be on your guard also against the learned !
They hate you, because they are unproductive!
They have cold, withered eyes before which every
bird is unplumed.
356 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Such persons vaunt about not lying: but in-
ability to lie is still far from being love to truth.
Be on your guard !
Freedom from fever is still far from being know-
ledge! Refrigerated spirits I do not believe in.
He who cannot lie, doth not know what truth is.
lO.
If ye would go up high, then use your own legs !
Do not get yourselves carried aloft ; do not seat
yourselves on other people's backs and heads !
Thou hast mounted, however, on horseback?
Thou now ridest briskly up to thy goal? Well,
my friend ! But thy lame foot is also with thee on
horseback !
When thou reachest thy goal, when thou
alightest from thy horse : precisely on thy height,
thou higher man, — then wilt thou stumble I
II.
Ye creating ones, ye higher men ! One is only
pregnant with one's own child.
* Do not let yourselves be imposed upon or put
upon ! Who then is your neighbour ? Even if
ye act " for your neighbour " — ye still do not create
for him !
Unlearn, I pray you, this " for," ye creating ones :
your very virtue wisheth you to have naught to do
with "for" and "on account of" and "because."
Against these false little words shall ye stop your
ears.
" For one's neighbour," is the virtue only of the
LXXIII.— THE HIGHER MAN. 357
petty people : there it is said " like and like," and
"hand washeth hand ":— they have neither the
right nor the power for }^our self-seeking !
In your self-seeking, ye creating ones, there is the
foresight and foreseeing of the pregnant! What
no one's eye hath yet seen, namely, the fruit — this,
sheltereth and saveth and nourisheth your entire
love.
Where your entire love is, namely, with your
child, there is also your entire virtue ! Your work,
your will is ^'^wr " neighbour " : let no false values
impose upon you !
12.
Ye creating ones, ye higher men I Whoever
hath to give birth is sick ; whoever hath given
birth, however, is unclean.
Ask women : one giveth birth, not because it
giveth pleasure. The pain maketh hens and poets
cackle.
Ye creating ones, in you there is much unclean-
ness. That is because ye have had to be mothers.
A new child : oh, how much new filth hath also
come into the world! Go apart! He who hath
given birth shall wash his soul I
«3-
Be not virtuous beyond your powers ! And seek
nothing from yourselves opposed to probability !
Walk in the footsteps in which your fathers'
virtue hath already walked ! How would ye rise
high, if your fathers' will should not rise with you ?
He, however, who would be a firstling, let him
358 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
take care lest he also become a lastling! And
where the vices of your fathers are, there should ye
not set up as saints !
He whose fathers were inclined for women, and
for strong wine and flesh of wildboar swine ; what
would it be if he demanded chastity of himself?
A folly would it be ! Much, verily, doth it seem
to me for such a one, if he should be the husband
of one or of two or of three women.
And if he founded monasteries, and inscribed
over their portals : " The way to holiness," — I
should still say : What good is it ! it is a new
folly!
He hath founded for himself a penance-house
and refuge-house : much good may it do ! But I
do not believe in it.
In solitude there groweth what any one bringeth
into it — also the brute in one's nature. Thus is
solitude inadvisable' unto many.
Hath there ever been anything filthier on earth
than the saints of the wilderness? Around them
was not only the devil loose — but also the swine.
14.
Shy, ashamed, awkward, like the tiger whose
spring hath failed — thus, ye higher men, have I
often seen you slink aside. A cast which ye made
had failed.
But what doth it matter, ye dice-players ! Ye
had not learned to play and mock, as one must
play and mock ! Do we not ever sit at a great
table of mocking and playing ?
And if great things have been a failure with you.
LXXIII.— THE HIGHER MAN. 359
have ye yourselves therefore — been a failure?
And if ye yourselves have been a failure, hath man
therefore — been a failure? If man, however, hath
been a failure : well then ! never mind 1
15.
The higher its type, always the seldomer doth a
thing succeed. Ye higher men here, have ye not
all — been failures?
Be of good cheer ; what doth it matter ? How
much is still possible ! Learn to laugh at your-
selves, as ye ought to laugh !
What wonder even that ye have failed and only
half-succeeded, ye half-shattered ones ! Doth not
— man's /«/«r^ strive and struggle in you?
Man's furthest, profoundest, star-highest issues,
his prodigious powers — do not all these foam
through one another in your vessel ?
What wonder that many a vessel shattereth !
Learn to laugh at yourselves, as ye ought to laugh !
Ye higher men. Oh, how much is still possible !
And verily, how much hath already succeeded !
How rich is this earth in small, good, perfect things,
in well-constituted things !
Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye
higher men Their golden maturity healeth the
heart. The perfect teacheth one to hope.
16.
What hath hitherto been the greatest sin here on
earth ? Was it not the word of him who said :
" Woe unto them that laugh now I "
360 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Did he himself find no cause for laughter on the
earth ? Then he sought badly. A child even
findeth cause for it.
He — did not love sufficiently : otherwise would
he also have loved us, the laughing ones ! But he
hated and hooted us ; wailing and teeth-gnashing
did he promise us.
Must one then curse immediately, when one doth
not love ? That — seemeth to me bad taste. Thus
did he, however, this absolute one. He sprang
from the populace.
And he himself just did not love sufficiently ;
otherwise would he have raged less because people
did not love him. All great love doth not seek
love : — it seeketh more.
Go out of the way of all such absolute ones !
They are a poor sickly type, a populace-type : they
look at this life with ill-will, they have an evil eye
for this earth.
Go out of the way of all such absolute ones !
They have heavy feet and sultry hearts : — they do
not know how to dance. How could the earth be
light to such ones I
17.
Tortuously do all good things come nigh to
their goal. Like cats they curve their backs, they
purr inwardly with their approaching happiness, —
all good things laugh.
His step betrayeth whether a person already
walketh on his own path : just see me walk ! He,
however, who cometh nigh to his goal, danceth.
And verily, a statue have I not become, not yet
LXXIIL— THE HIGHER MAN. 36I
do I Stand there stiff, stupid and stony, like a
pillar ; I love fast racing.
And though there be on earth fens and dense
afflictions, he who hath light feet runneth even
across the mud, and danceth, as upon well-
swept ice.
Lift up your hearts, my brethren, high, higher !
And do not forget your legs ! ^ift up also your
legs, ye ^ood dancers, and better still, if ye stand
upon your heads i
18.
This crown of the laugher, this rose-garland
crown : I myself have put on this crown, I myself
have consecrated my laughter. No one else have
I found to-day potent enough for this.
Zarathustra the dancer, Zarathustra the light one,
who beckoneth witn his pinions, one ready for
flight, beckoning unto all birds, ready and prepared,
a blissfully light-spirited one : —
Zarathustra the soothsayer, Zarathustra the
sooth-laugher, no impatient one, no absolute one,
one who loveth leaps and side-leaps ; I myself
have put on this crown !
19
Lift up your hearts, my brethren, high, higher!
And do not forget your legs ! Lift up also your
legs, ye good dancers, and better still if ye stand
upon your heads !
There are also heavy animals in a state of happi-
ness, there are club-footed ones from the beginning.
362 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Curiously do they exert themselves, like an elephant
which endeavoureth to stand upon its head.
Better, however, to be foolish with happiness than
foolish with misfortune, better to dance awkwardly
than walk lamely. So learn, I pray you, my
wisdom, ye higher men : even the worst thing hath
two good reverse sides, —
— Even the worst thing hath good dancing-legs :
so learn, I pray you, ye higher men, to put your-
selves on your proper legs !
So unlearn, I pray you, the sorrow-sighing, and
all the populace-sadness! Oh, how sad the buffoons
of the populace seem to me to-day ! This today,
however, is that of the populace.
20.
Do like unto the wind when it rusheth forth from
its mountain-caves : unto its own piping will it
dance ; the seas tremble and leap under its footsteps.
That which giveth wings to asses, that which
milketh the lionesses : — praised be that good, unruly
spirit, which cometh like a hurricane unto all the
present and unto all the populace, —
— Which is hostile to thistle-heads and puzzle-
heads, and to all withered leaves and weeds : —
praised be this wild, good, free spirit of the storm,
which danceth upon fens and afflictions, as upon
meadows !
Which hateth the consumptive populace-dogs,
and all the ill-constituted, sullen brood : — praised
be this spirit of all free spirits, the laughing storm,
which bloweth dust into the eyes of all the melan-
opic and melancholic !
LXXIIL— THE HIGHER MAN. 363
Ye higher men, the worst thing in you is that
ye have none of you learned to dance as ye ought
to dance — to dance beyond yourselves! What doth
it matter that ye have failed !
How many things are still possible ! So learn to
laugh beyond yourselves ! Lift up your hearts, ye
good dancers, high ! higher ! And do not forget the
good laughter !
This crown of the laugher, this rose-garland
crown : to you my brethren do I cast this crown !
Laughing have I consecrated ; ye higher men, learn,
I pray you — to laugh I
LXXIV.— THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY.
I.
When Zarathustra spake these sayings, he stood
nigh to the entrance of his cave ; with the last
words, however, he slipped away from his guests,
and fled for a little while into the open air.
" O pure odours around me," cried he, " O
blessed stillness around me ! But where are mine
animals? Hither, hither, mine eagle and my
serpent !
Tell me, mine animals : these higher men, all of
them — do they perhaps not smell well ? O pure
odours around me ! Now only do I know and feel
how I love you, mine animals."
— And Zarathustra said once more : " I love you,
mine animals!" The eagle, however, and the
serpent pressed close to him when he spake these
words, and looked up to him. In this attitude were
they all three silent together, and sniffed and sipped
364 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
the good air with one another. For the air here
outside was better than with the higher men.
2.
Hardly, however, had Zarathustra left the cave
when the old magician got up, looked cunningly
about him, and said : " He is gone !
And already, ye higher men — let me tickle you
with this complimentary and flattering name, as he
himself doeth — already doth mine evil spirit of
deceit and magic attack me, my melancholy devil,
— Which is an adversary to this Zarathustra from
the very heart : forgive it for this ! Now doth it
wish to conjure before you, it hath just its hour;
in vain do I struggle with this evil spirit.
Unto all of you, whatever honours ye like to
assume in your names, whether ye call yourselves
' the free spirits ' or * the conscientious,' or * the
penitents of the spirit/ or * the unfettered,* or * the
great longers,' —
— Unto all of you, who like me suffer from the
great loathings to whom the old God hath died, and
as yet no new God lieth in cradles and swaddling
clothes — unto all of you is mine evil spirit and
magic-devil favourable.
I know you, ye higher men, I know him, — Ij
know also this fiend whom I love in spite of me,]
this Zarathustra : he himself often seemeth to mej
like the beautiful mask of a saint,
— Like a new strange mummery in which mine]
evil spirit, the melancholy devil, delighteth : — I lovci
Zarathustra, so doth it often seem to me, for thej
sake of mine evil spirit —
LXXIV.— -THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY. 365
But already doth // attack me and constrain me,
this spirit of melancholy, this evening-twilight devil :
and verily, ye higher men, it hath a longing —
— Open your eyes ! — it hath a longing to come
naked, whether male or female, I do not yet know :
but it cometh, it constraineth me, alas ! open your
wits!
The day dieth out, unto all things cometh now
the evening, also unto the best things ; hear now,
and see, ye higher men, what devil — man or woman
— this spirit of evening-melancholy is ! "
Thus spake the old magician, looked cunningly
about him« and then seized his harp.
In evening's limpid air,
What time the dew's soothings
Unto the earth downpour,
Invisibly and unheard —
For tender shoe-gear wear
The soothing dews, like all that's kind-
gentle — :
Bethinkst thou then, bethinkst thou, burning
heart,
How once thou thirstedest
For heaven's kindly teardrops and dew's down-
droppings.
All singed and weary thirstedest.
What time on yellow grass-pathways
Wicked, occidental sunny glances
Through sombre trees about thee sported,
Blindingly sunny glow-glances, gladly-hurting ?
366 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
" Of truth the wooer ? Thou ? " — so taunted
they —
** Nay ! Merely poet !
A brute insidious, plundering, grovelling,
That aye nnust lie,
That wittingly, wilfully, aye must lie ;
For booty lusting,
Motley masked.
Self-hidden, shrouded,
Himself his booty —
He — of truth the wooer ?
Nay ! Mere fool ! Mere poet I
Just motley speaking,
From mask of fool confusedly shouting,
Circumambling on fabricated word-bridges,
On motley rainbow-arches,
*Twixt the spurious heavenly
And spurious earthly,
Round us roving, round us soaring,—
Mere fool ! Mere poet !
He — of truth the wooer ?
Not still, stiff, smooth and cold,
Become an image,
A godlike statue.
Set up in front of temples.
As a God's own door-guard :
Nay ! hostile to all such truthfulness-statues,
In every desert homelier than at temples,
With cattish wantonness.
Through every window leaping
Quickly into chances.
Every wild forest a-sniffing,
LXXIV.— THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY. 367
Greedily-longingly, sniffing,
That thou, in wild forests,
'Mong the motley-speckled fierce creatures,
Shouldest rove, sinful-sound and fine-coloured,
With longing lips smacking,
Blessedly mocking, blessedly hellish, blessedly
bloodthirsty.
Robbing, skulking, lying— roving : —
Or unto eagles like which fixedly,
Long adown the precipice look,
Adown their precipice :
Oh, how they whirl down now,
Thereunder, therein,
To ever deeper profoundness whirling ! —
Then,
Sudden,
With aim aright,
With quivering flight,
On lambkins pouncing,
Headlong down, sore-hungry,
For lambkins longing.
Fierce 'gainst all lamb-spirits.
Furious-fierce 'gainst all that look
Sheeplike, or lambeyed, or crisp-woolly,
— Grey, with lambsheep kindliness !
Even thus.
Eaglelike, pantherlike,
Are the poet's desires,
Are thine own desires 'neath a thousand guises.
Thou fool 1 Thou poet !
368 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Thou who all mankind viewedst —
So God, as sheep — :
The God to rend within mankind,
As the sheep in mankind,
And in rending laughing —
That, that is thine own blessedness !
Of a panther and eagle — blessedness !
Of a poet and fool — the blessedness ! " — —
In evening's limpid air,
What time the moon's sickle,
Green, 'twixt the purple-glowings,
And jealous, steal'th forth :
— Of day the foe,
With every step in secret,
The rosy garland-hammocks
Downsickling, till they've sunken
Down nightwards, faded, downsunken : —
Thus had I sunken one day
From mine own truth-insanity,
From mine own fervid day-longings.
Of day aweary, sick of sunshine,
— Sunk downwards, evenwards, shadowwards :
By one sole trueness
All scorched and thirsty :
— Bethinkst thou still, bethinkst thou, burning
heart.
How then thou thirstedest ? —
That I should banned be
From all the trueness !
Mere fool J Mere poet i
LXXV.— SCIENCE. ' 369
LXXV.— SCIENCE.
Thus sang the magician ; and all who were
present went like birds unawares into the net of his
artful and melancholy voluptuousness. Only the
spiritually conscientious one had not been caught :
he at once snatched the harp from the magician
and called out : " Air ! Let in good air I Let in
Zarathustra ! Thou makest this cs ^ sultry and
poisonous, thou bad old magician !
Thou seducest, thou false one, thou subtle one,
to unknown desires and deserts. And alas, that
such as thou should talk and make ado about the
truth!
Alas, to all free spirits who are not on their
guard against such magicians ! It is all over with
their freedom : thou teachest and temptest back
into prisons, —
— Thou old melancholy devil, out of thy lament
soundeth a lurement : thou resemblest those who
with their praise of chastity secretly invite to
voluptuousness ! "
Thus spake the conscientious one ; the old
magician, however, looked about him, enjoying his
triumph, and on that account put up with the
annoyance which the conscientious one caused him.
" Be still 1 " said he with modest voice, " good songs
want to re-echo well ; after good songs one should
be long silent
Thus do all those present, the higher men.
Thou, however, hast perhaps understood but little
2 A
370 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
of my song ? In thee there is little of the magic
spirit."
"Thou praisest me," replied the conscientious
one, " in that thou separatest me from thyself ; very
well ! But, ye others, what do I see ? Ye still sit
there, all of you, with lusting eyes — :
Ye free spirits, whither hath your freedom gone 1
Ye almost seem to me to resemble those who have
long looked at bad girls dancing naked : your souls
themselves dance !
In you, ye higher men, there must be more of
that which the magician calleth his evil spirit of
magic and deceit : — we must indeed be different.
And verily, we spake and thought long enough
together ere Zarathustra came home to his cave, for
me not to be unaware that we are different.
We seek different things even here aloft, ye and I.
For I seek more security ; on that account have I
come to Zarathustra. For he is still the most
steadfast tower and will —
— To-day, when everything tottereth, when all
the earth quaketh. Ye, however, when I see what
eyes ye make, it almost seemeth to me that ye seek
more insecurity y
— More horror, more danger, more earthquake.
Ye long (it almost seemeth so to me — forgive my
presumption, ye higher men) —
— Ye long for the worst and dangerpusest life,
which frighteneth tne most, — for the life of wild
beasts, for forests, caves, steep mountains and
labyrinthine gorges.
And it is not those who lead out of danger that
please you best, but those who lead you away from
LXXV.— SCIENCE. 371
all paths, the misleaders. But if such longing in
you be actual^ it seemeth to me nevertheless to be
impossible.
For fear — that is nian's original and fundamental
feelm^T'lhrough fear everythmg is explained,
original sin and original virtue. Through fear
there grew also my virtue, that is to say:
Science.
For fear of wild animals — that hath been longest
fostered in man, inclusive of the animal which he
concealeth and feareth in himself: — Zarathustra
calleth it ' the beast inside.'
Such prolonged ancient fear, at last become
subtle, spiritual and intellectual — at present, me-
thinketh, it is called Science!' —
Thus spake the conscientious one ; but Zarathus-
tra, who had just come back into his cave and had
heard and divined the last discourse, threw a hand-
ful of roses to the conscientious one, and laughed
on account of his " truths." " Why ! " he exclaimed,
" what did I hear just now ? Verily, it seemeth to
me, thou art a fool, or else I myself am one : and
quietly and quickly will I put thy 'truth' upside
down.
For fear — is an exception with us. Courage,
however, and adventure, and delight in the uncer-
tain, in the unattempted — courage seemeth to me
the entire primitive history of man.
The wildest and most courageous animals hath
he envied and robbed of all their virtues : thus
only did he become — man.
This courage, at last become subtle, spiritual and
intellectual, this human courage, with eagle's
372 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
pinions and serpent's wisdom : this, it seemeth to
me, is called at present — "
** Zaratkustra!" cried all of them there as-
sembled, as if with one voice, and burst out at the
same time into a great laughter ; there arose,
however, from them as it were a heavy cloud.
Even the magician laughed, and said wisely:
" Well 1 It is gone, mine evil spirit !
And did I not myself warn you against it when
I said that it was a deceiver, a lying and deceiving
spirit ?
Especially when it showeth itself naked. But
what can / do with regard to its tricks ! Have /
created it and the world ?
Well ! Let us be good again, and of good cheer !
And although Zarathustra looketh with evil eye —
just see him ! he disliketh me — :
— Ere night cometh will he again learn to love
and laud me ; he cannot live long without commit-
ting such follies.
He — loveth his enemies : this art knoweth he
better than any one I have seen. But he taketh
revenge for it — on his friends ! "
Thus spake the old magician, and the higher men
applauded him ; so that Zarathustra went round,
and mischievously and lovingly shook hands with
his friends, — like one who hath to make amends
and apologise to every one for something. When
however he had thereby come to the door of his
cave, lo, then had he again a longing for the good
air outside, and for his animals, — and wished to
steal out
LXXVI.— DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT. 373
LXXVI.— AMONG DAUGHTERS OF THE
DESERT.
I.
" Go not away ! " said then the wanderer who
called himself Zarathustra's shadow, "abide with
us — otherwise the old gloomy affliction might again
fall upon us.
Now hath that old magician given us of his
worst for our good, and lo ! the good, pious pope
there hath tears in his eyes, and hath quite
embarked again upon the sea of melancholy.
Those kings may well put on a good air before
us still : for that have they learned best of us all at
present ! Had they however no one to see them, I
wager that with them also the bad game would
again commence, —
— The bad game of drifting clouds, of damp
melancholy, of curtained heavens, of stolen suns, of
howling autumn-winds,
— The bad game of our howling and crying for
help I Abide with us, O Zarathustra ! Here there
is much concealed misery that wisheth to speak,
much evening, much cloud, much damp air !
Thou hast nourished us with strong food for men,
and powerful proverbs: do not let the weakly,
womanly spirits attack us anew at dessert I
Thou alone makest the air around thee strong
and clear ! Did I ever find anywhere on earth such
good air as with thee in thy cave ?
Many lands have I seen, my nose hath learned
to test and estimate many kinds of air : but with
thee do my nostrils taste their greatest delight !
374 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Unless it be, — unless it be — , do forgive an old
recollection ! Forgive me an old after-dinner song,
which I once composed amongst daughters of the
desert : —
For with them was there equally good, clear,
Oriental air ; there was I furthest from cloudy,
damp, melancholy Old-Europe !
Then did I love such Oriental maidens and
other blue kingdoms of heaven, over which hang
no clouds and no thoughts.
Ye would not believe how charmingly they sat
there, when they did not dance, profound, but with-
out thoughts, like little secrets, like beribboned
riddles, like dessert-nuts —
Many-hued and foreign, forsooth! but without
clouds : riddles which can be guessed : to please
such maidens I then composed an after-dinner
psalm."
Thus spake the wanderer who called himself
Zarathustra's shadow ; and before any one answered
him, he had seized the harp of the old magician,
crossed his legs, and looked calmly and sagely
around him : — with his nostrils, however, he inhaled
the air slowly and questioningly, like one who in
new countries tasteth new foreign air. Afterward
he began to sing with a kind of roaring.
The deserts grow : woe him who doth them hide !
~Ha!
Solemnly !
In effect solemnly !
A worthy beginning I
LXXVI.— DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT. 375
Afric manner, solemnly !
Of a lion worthy,
Or perhaps of a virtuous howl-monkey —
— But it's naught to you,
Ye friendly damsels dearly loved,
At whose own feet to me.
The first occasion,
To a European under palm-trees,
A seat is now granted. Selah.
Wonderful, truly !
Here do I sit now,
The desert nigh, and yet I am
So far still from the desert,
Even in naught yet deserted :
That is, I'm swallowed down
By this the smallest oasis — :
— It opened up just yawning,
Its loveliest mouth agape.
Most sweet-odoured of all mouthlets :
Then fell I right in,
Right down, right through — in 'mong you,
Ye friendly damsels dearly loved 1 Selah.
Hail ! hail ! to that whale, fishlike,
If it thus for its guest's convenience
Made things nice ! — (ye well know.
Surely, my learned allusion ?)
Hail to its belly.
If it had e'er
A such loveliest oasis-belly
As this is : though however I doubt about it,
— With this come I out of Old-Europe,
376 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
That doubt'th more eagerly than doth any
Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it !
Amen !
Here do I sit now,
In this the smallest oasis,
Like a date indeed,
Brown, quite sweet, gold-suppurating,
For rounded mouth of maiden longing,
But yet still more for youthful, maidlike,
Ice-cold and snow-white and incisory
Front teeth : and for such assuredly.
Pine the hearts all of ardent date-fruits. Selah.
To the there-named south-fruits now,
Similar, all-too-similar.
Do I lie here ; by little
Flying insects
Round-sniffled and round-played,
And also by yet littler,
Foolisher, and peccabler
Wishes and phantasies, —
Environed by you.
Ye silent, presentientest
Maiden-kittens,
Dudu and Suleika,
— Roundsphinxedy that into one word
I may crowd much feeling :
(Forgive me, O God,
All such speech-sinning !)
— Sit I here the best of air sniffling,
Paradisal air, truly.
I
LXXVI. — DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT. 377
Bright and buoyant air, golden-mottled,
As goodly air as ever
From lunar orb down fell —
Be it by hazard,
Or supervened it by arrogancy?
As the ancient poets relate it.
But doubter, I'm now calling it
In question : with this do I come indeed^
Out of Europe,
That doubt'Th'more eagerly than doth any
Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it !
Amen.
This the finest air drinking,
With nostrils out-swelled like goblets.
Lacking future, lacking remembrances
Thus do I sit here, ye
Friendly damsels dearly loved,
And look at the palm-tree there,
How it, to a dance-girl, like,
Doth bow and bend and on its hunches bob,
— One doth it too, when one view'th it long !—
To a dance-girl like, who as it seem'th to me,
Too long, and dangerously persistent,
Always, always, just on single leg hath stood ?
— Then forgot she thereby, as it seem'th to me,
Th.c: other \Qg}
For vainly I, at least,
Did search for the amissing
Fellow-jewel
— Namely, the other leg —
In the sanctified precincts.
378 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Nigh her very dearest, very tenderest,
Flapping and fluttering and flickering skirting.
Yea, if ye should, ye beauteous friendly ones,
Quite take my word :
She hath, alas ! lost it !
Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu ! Hu I
It is away !
For ever away !
The other leg !
Oh, pity for that loveliest other leg !
Where may it now tarry, all-forsaken weeping?
The lonesomest leg ?
In fear perhaps before a
Furious, yellow, blond and curled
Leonine monster ? Or perhaps even
Gnawed away, nibbled badly —
Most wretched, woeful ! woeful ! nibbled badly !
Selah.
Oh, weep ye not,
Gentle spirits !
Weep ye not, ye
Date-fruit spirits ! Milk-bosoms I
Ye sweetwood-heart
Purselets !
Weep ye no more,
Pallid Dudu !
Be a man, Suleika ! Bold ! Bold !
— Or else should there perhaps
Something strengthening, heart-strengthening,
Here most proper be ?
Some inspiring text ?
Some solemn exhortation ? —
i
LXXVI.— DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT. 379
Ha ! Up now ! honour !
Moral honour ! European honour I
Blow again, continue,
Bellows-box of virtue !
Ha!
Once more thy roaring,
Thy moral roaring !
As a virtuous lion
Nigh the daughters of deserts roaring !
— For virtue's out-howl,
Ye very dearest maidens.
Is more than every
European fervour, Eur*)pean hot-hunger !
And now do I stand here.
As European,
I can't be different, God's help to me !
Amen !
The deserts grow : woe him who doth them hide !
LXXVH.— THE AWAKENING.
After the song of the wanderer and shadow,
the cave became all at once full of noise and
laughter : and since the assembled guests all spake
simultaneously, and even the ass, encouraged there-
by, no longer remained silent, a little aversion and
scorn for his visitors came over Zarathustra,
although he rejoiced at their gladness. For it
seemed to him a sign of convalescence So he
380 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
slipped out into the open air and spake to his
animals.
"Whither hath their distress now gone?" said
he, and already did he himself feel relieved of his
petty disgust — " with me, it seemeth that they have
unlearned their cries of distress !
— Though, alas! not yet their crying." And
Zarathustra stopped his ears, for just then did the
Ye-A of the ass mix strangely with the noisy
jubilation of those higher men.
"They are merry," he began again, "and who
knoweth ? perhaps at their host's expense ; and if
they have learned of me to laugh, still it is not my
laughter they have learned.
But what matter about that ! They are old
people : they recover in their own way, they laugh
in their own way ; mine ears have already endured
worse and have not become peevish.
This day is a victory: he already yieldeth, he
fleeth, the spirit of gravity, mine old arch-enemy !
How well this day is about to end, which began so
badly and gloomily !
And it is about to end. Already cometh the
evening: over the sea rideth it hither, the good
rider ! How it bobbeth, the blessed one, the home-
returning one, in its purple saddles !
The sky gazeth brightly thereon, the world lieth
deep. Oh, all ye strange ones who have come to
me, it is already worth while to have lived with me! "
Thus spake Zarathustra. And again came the
cries and laughter of the higher men out of the
cave : then began he anew :
LXXVII.— THE AWAKENING. 381
" They bite at it, my bait taketh, there departeth
also from them their enemy, the spirit of gravity.
Now do they learn to laugh at themselves : do I
hear rightly ?
My virile food taketh effect, my strong and
savoury sayings : and verily, I did not nourish them
with flatulent vegetables! But with warrior-food,
with conqueror-food : new desires did I awaken.
New hopes are in their arms and legs, their
hearts expand. They find new words, soon will
their spirits breathe wantonness.
Such food may sure enough not be proper for
children, nor even for longing girls old and young.
One persuadeth their bowels otherwise ; I am not
their physician and teacher.
The disgust departeth from these higher men :
well I that is my victory. In my domain they
become assured ; all stupid shame fleeth away ;
they empty themselves.
They empty their hearts, good times return unto
them, they keep holiday and ruminate, — they
become thankful.
That do I take as the best sign : they become
thankful. Not long will it be ere they devise
festivals, and put up memorials to their old joys.
They are convalescents ! " Thus spake Zarathus-
tra joyfully to his heart and gazed outward ; his
animals, however, pressed up to him, and honoured
his happiness and his silence.
3.
All on a sudden however, Zarathustra's ear was
frightened : for the cave which had hitherto been
382 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
full of noise and laughter, became all at once still
as death ; — his nose, however, smelt a sweet-scented
vapour and incense-odour, as if from burning pine-
cones.
" What happeneth ? What are they about ? " he
asked himself, and stole up to the entrance, that he
might be able unobserved to see his guests. But
wonder upon wonder! what was he then obliged
to behold with his own eyes !
" They have all of them become pious again, they
pray^ they are mad ! " — said he, and was astonished
beyond measure. And forsooth ! all these higher
men, the two kings, the pope out of service, the
evil magician, the voluntary beggar, the wanderer
and shadow, the old soothsayer, the spiritually
conscientious one, and the ugliest man — they all
lay on their knees like children and credulous old
women, and worshipped the ass. And just then
began the ugliest man to gurgle and snort, as if
something unutterable in him tried to find expres-
sion ; when, however, he had actually found words,
behold ! it was a pious, strange litany in praise of
the adored and censed ass. And the litany sounded
thus:
Amen ! And glory and honour and wisdom and
thanks and praise and strength be to our God, from
everlasting to everlasting !
— The ass, however, here brayed Ye-a.
He carrieth our burdens, he hath taken upon him
the form of a servant, he is patient of heart and
never saith Nay ; and he who loveth his God
chastiseth him.
LXXVII.— THE AWAKENING. 383
— The ass, however, here brayed Ye- A.
He speaketh not : except that he ever saith Yea
to the world which he created : thus doth he extol
his world. It is his artfulness that speaketh not :
thus is he rarely found wrong.
— The ass, however, here brayed Ye-A.
Uncomely goeth he through the world. Grey is
the favourite colour in which he wrappeth his virtue.
Hath he spirit, then doth he conceal it ; every one,
however, believeth in his long ears.
— The ass, however, here brayed Ye-a.
What hidden wisdom it is to wear long ears, and
only to say Yea and never Nay! Hath he not
created the world in his own image, namely, as
stupid as possible ?
— The ass, however, here brayed Ye-a.
Thou goest straight and crooked ways ; it
concerneth thee little what seemeth straight or
crooked unto us men. Beyond good and evil is
thy domain. It is thine innocence not to know
what innocence is.
— The ass, however, here brayed Ye-a.
Lo ! how thou spurnest none from thee, neither
beggars nor kings. Thou sufferest little children
to come unto thee, and when the bad boys decoy
thee, then sayest thou simply, Ye-a.
— The ass, however, here brayed Ye-a.
Thou lovest she-asses and fresh figs, thou art no
food-despiser. A thistle tickleth thy heart when
thou chancest to be hungry. There is the wisdom
of a God therein.
^-The ass, however, here brayed Ye-a.
384 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
LXXVIIL— THE ASS-FESTIVAL.
I.
At this place in the litany, however, Zarathustra
could no longer control himself; he himself cried
out Ye-a, louder even than the ass, and sprang into
the midst of his maddened guests. " Whatever are
you about, ye grown-up children?" he exclaimed,
pulling up the praying ones from the ground.
"Alas, if any one else, except Zarathustra, had
seen you :
Every one would think you the worst blas-
phemers, or the very foolishest old women, with
your new belief!
And thou thyself, thou old pope, how is it in
accordance with thee, to adore an ass in such a
manner as God ? " —
" O Zarathustra," answered the pope, " forgive
me, but in divine matters I am more enlightened
even than thou. And it is right that it should
be so.
Better to adore God so, in this form, than in no
form at all ! Think over this saying, mine exalted
friend : thou wilt readily divine that in such a
saying there is wisdom.
He who said * God is a Spirit ' — made the greatest
stride and slide hitherto made on earth towards
unbelief : such a dictum is not easily amended again
on earth !
Mine old heart leapeth and boundeth because
there is still something to adore on earth. Forgive
it, O Zarathustra, to an old, pious pontiff-heart ! — "
LXXVIII.— THE ASS-FESTIVAL. 385
— " And thou," said Zarathustra to the wanderer
and shadow, "thou callest and thinkest thyself a
free spirit ? And thou here practisest such idolatry
and hierolatry ?
Worse verily, doest thou here than with thy
bad brown girls, thou bad, new believer ! "
" It is sad enough," answered the wanderer and
shadow, "thou art right: but how can I help itl
The old God liveth again, O Zarathustra, thou
mayst say what thou wilt.
The ugliest man is to blame for it all : he hath
reawakened him. And if he say that he once killed
him, with Gods death is always just a prejudice."
— " And thou," said Zarathustra, " thou bad old
magician, what didst thou do ! Who ought to
believe any longer in thee in this free age, when
thou believest in such divine donkeyism ?
It was a stupid thing that thou didst ; how
couldst thou, a shrewd man, do such a stupid
thing ! "
" O Zarathustra," answered the shrewd magician,
" thou art right, it was a stupid thing, — it was also
repugnant to me."
— " And thou even," said Zarathustra to the
spiritually conscientious one, "consider, and put
thy finger to thy nose ! Doth nothing go against
thy conscience here ? Is thy spirit not too cleanly
for this praying and the fumes of those devotees ? "
" There is something therein," said the spiritually
conscientious one, and put his finger to his nose,
"there is something in this spectacle which even
doeth good to my conscience.
Perhaps I dare not believe in God : certain it is
2 B
386 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
however, that God seemeth to me most worthy of
belief in this form.
God is said to be eternal, according to the testi-
mony of the most pious : he who hath so much time
taketh his time. As slow and as stupid as possible:
thereby can such a one nevertheless go very far.
And he who hath too much spirit might well
become infatuated with stupidity and folly. Think
of thyself, O Zarathustra !
Thou thyself— verily ! even thou couldst well
become an ass through superabundance of wisdom.
Doth not the true sage willingly walk on the
crookedest paths? The evidence teacheth it, O
Zarathustra, — thine own evidence ! "
— " And thou thyself, finally," said Zarathustra,
and turned towards the ugliest man, who still lay
on the ground stretching up his arm to the ass
(for he gave it wine to drink). "Say, thou non-
descript, what hast thou been about !
Thou seemest to me transformed, thine eyes
glow, the mantle of the sublime covereth thine
ugliness : what didst thou do?
Is it then true what they say, that thou hast again
awakened him ? And why ? Was he not for good
reasons killed and made away with ?
Thou thyself seemest to me awakened: what
didst thou do ? why didst thou turn round ? Why
didst thou get converted ? Speak, thou nondescript ! "
" O Zarathustra," answered the ugliest man, "thou
art a rogue !
Whether he yet liveth, or again liveth, or is
thoroughly dead — which of us both knoweth that
best? I ask thee.
LXXVIIL— THE ASS-FESTIVAL. 387
One thing however do I know, — from thyself
did I learn it once, O Zarathustra : he who wanteth
to kill most thoroughly, laugheth.
' Not by wrath but by laughter doth one kill ' —
thus spakest thou once, O Zarathustra, thou hidden
one, thou destroyer without wrath, thou dangerous
saint, — thou art a rogue ! "
2.
Then, however, did it come to pass that Zara-
thustra, astonished at such merely roguish answers,
jumped back to the door of his cave, and turning
towards all his guests, cried out with a strong voice :
" O ye wags, all of you, ye buffoons ! Why do
ye dissemble and disguise yourselves before me !
How the hearts of all of you convulsed with
delight and wickedness, because ye had at last
become again like little children — namely, pious, —
— Because ye at last did again as children do —
namely, prayed, folded your hands and said * good
God'!
But now leave, I pray you, this nursery, mine
own cave, where to-day all childishness is carried
on. Cool down, here outside, your hot child-
wantonness and heart-tumult !
To be sure : except ye become as little children
ye shall not enter into that kingdom of heaven."
(And Zarathustra pointed aloft with his hands.)
"But we do not at all want to enter into the
kingdom of heaven : we have become men, — so we
want the kingdom of earth"
388 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
And once more began Zarathustra to speak.
" O my new friends," said he, — " ye strange ones, ye
higher men, how well do ye now please me, —
— Since ye have again become joyful ! Ye have,
verily, all blossomed forth : it seemeth to me that
for such flowers as you, new festivals are required.
— A little valiant nonsense, some divine service
and ass-festival, some old joyful Zarathustra fool,
some blusterer to blow your souls bright.
Forget not this night and this ass-festival, ye
higher men ! That did ye devise when with me,
that do I take as a good omen, — such things only
the convalescents devise !
And should ye celebrate it again^ thj^ ass-festival,
do it from love to yourselves^ do it also from love
to me ! And in remembrance of me / "
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXXIX.— THE DRUNKEN SONG.
Meanwhile one after another had gone out into
the open air, and into the cool, thoughtful night ;
Zarathustra himself, however, led the ugliest man
by the hand, that he might show him his night-
world, and the great round moon, and the silvery
water-falls near his cave. There they at last stood
still beside one another ; all of them old people,
but with comforted, brave hearts, and astonished
in themselves that it was so well with them on
LXXIX. — THE DRUNKEN SONG. 389
earth ; the mystery of the night, however, came
nigher and nigher to their hearts. And anew
Zarathustra thought to himself: "Oh, how well
do they now please me, these higher men ! " — but
he did not say it aloud, for he respected their
happiness and their silence. —
Then, however, there happened that which in
this astonishing long day was most astonishing:
the ugliest man began once more and for the last
time to gurgle and snort, and when he had at
length found expression, behold ! there sprang a
question plump and plain out of his mouth, a good,
deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all
who listened to him.
" My friends, all of you," said the ugliest man,
" what think ye ? For the sake of this day — / am
for the first time content to have lived mine entire
life.
And that I testify so much is still not enough
for me. It is worth while living on the earth : one
day, one festival with Zarathustra, hath taught me
to love the earth.
' Was t/tat— life ? ' will 1 say unto death. ' Well !
Once more ! '
My friends, what think ye? Will ye not, like
me, say unto death : * Was thai — life ? For the
sake of Zarathustra, well ! Once more ! ' "
Thus spake the ugliest man ; it was not, however,
far from midnight. And what took place then,
think ye? As soon as the higher men heard his
question, they became all at once conscious of their
transformation and convalescence, and of him who
was the cause thereof: then did they rush up to
390 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
Zarathustra, thanking, honouring, caressing him,
and kissing his hands, each in his own peculiar
way ; so that some laughed and some wept. The
old soothsayer, however, danced with delight ; and
though he was then, as some narrators suppose, full
of sweet wine, he was certainly still fuller of sweet
life, and had renounced all weariness. There are
even those who narrate that the ass then danced :
for not in vain had the ugliest man previously given
it wine to drink. That may be the case, or it may
be otherwise ; and if in truth the ass did not dance
that evening, there nevertheless happened then
greater and rarer wonders than the dancing of an
ass would have been. In short, as the proverb of
Zarathustra saith : " What doth it matter ! "
2.
When, however, this took place with the ugliest
man, Zarathustra stood there like one drunken :
his glance dulled, his tongue faltered and his feet
staggered. And who could divine what thoughts
then passed through Zarathustra's soul? Ap-
parently, however, his spirit retreated and fled in
advance and was in remote distances, and as it
were "wandering on high mountain-ridges," as it
standeth written, " 'twixt two seas,
— Wandering 'twixt the past and the future as
a heavy cloud." Gradually, however, while the
higher men held him in their arms, he came back
to himself a little, and resisted with his hands the
crowd of the honouring and caring ones ; but he
did not speak. All at once, however, he turned
his head quickly, for he seemed to hear something :
LXXIX.— THE DRUNKEN SONG. 39I
then laid he his finger on his mouth and said :
" Come ! "
And immediately it became still and mysterious
round about ; from the depth however there came
up slowly the sound of a clock-bell. Zarathustra
listened thereto, like the higher men ; then, however,
laid he his finger on his mouth the second time, and
said again : " Come ! Come ! It is getting on to
midnight ! " — and his voice had changed. But still
he had not moved from the spot. Then it became
yet stiller and more mysterious, and everything
hearkened, even the ass, and Zarathustra's noble
animals, the eagle and the serpent, — likewise the
cave of Zarathustra and the big cool moon, and
the night itself. Zarathustra, however, laid his
hand upon his mouth for the third time, and said :
Come ! Come ! Come ! Let us now wander !
It is the hour : let us wander into the night !
Ye higher men, it is getting on to midnight:
then will I say something into your ears, as that
old clock-bell saith it into mine ear, —
— As mysteriously, as frightfully, and as cordially
as that midnight clock-bell speaketh it to me, which
hath experienced more than one man :
— Which hath already counted the smarting
throbbings of your fathers' hearts — ah ! ah ! how it
sigheth! how it laugheth in its dream! the old, deep,
deep midnight !
Hush ! Hush ! Then is there many a thing
heard which may not be heard by day ; now how-
392 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
ever, in the cool air, when even all the tumult of
your hearts hath become still, —
— Now doth it speak, now is it heard, now doth it
steal into overwakeful, nocturnal souls : ah ! ah ! how
the midnight sigheth ! how it laugheth in its dream !
— Hearest thou not how it mysteriously, fright-
fully, and cordially speaketh unto thee, the old
deep, deep midnight ?
O man, take heed !
4-
Woe to me ! Whither hath time gone ? Have
I not sunk into deep wells ? The world sleepeth —
Ah ! Ah ! The dog howleth, the moon shineth.
Rather will I die, rather will I die, than say unto
you what my midnight-heart now thinketh.
Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why
spinnest thou around me ? Wilt thou have blood ?
Ah ! Ah ! The dew falleth, the hour cometh—
— The hour in which I frost and freeze, which
asketh and asketh and asketh : " Who hath suffi-
cient courage for it ?
— Who is to be master of the world? Who
is going to say : Thus shall ye flow, ye great and
small streams ! "
— The hour approacheth : O man, thou higher
man, take heed ! this talk is for fine ears, for thine
ears — what saith deep midnights voice indeed?
5.
It carrieth me away, my soul danceth.' Day's-
work ! Day's-work ! Who is to be master of the
world ?
The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah ! Ah !
I
LXXIX.— THE DRUNKEN SONG. 393
Have ye already flown high enough? Ye have
danced : a leg, nevertheless, is not a wing.
Ye good dancers, now is all delight over: wine
hath become lees, every cup hath become brittle,
the sepulchres mutter.
Ye have not flown high enough : now do the
sepulchres mutter : " Free the dead ! Why is it so
long night? Doth not the moon make us drunken?"
Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the
corpses ! Ah, why doth the worm still burrow ?
There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour, —
— There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth
still the heart, there burroweth still the wood-worm,
the heart-worm. Ah ! Ah ! The world is deep !
Sweet lyre ! Sweet lyre ! I love thy tone, thy
drunken, ranunculine tone ! — how long, how far hath
come unto me thy tone, from the distance, from
the ponds of love !
Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre ! Every pain
hath torn thy heart, father-pain, fathers'-pain, fore-
fathers'-pain ; thy speech hath become ripe, —
— Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon,
like mine anchorite heart — now sayest thou : The
world itself hath become ripe, the grape turneth
brown,
— Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness
Ye higher men, do ye not feel it ? There welleth up
mysteriously an odour,
— A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed,
brown, gold-wine-odour of old happiness,
— Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which
394 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
singeth : the world is deep, and deeper than the day
could read !
Leave me alone ! Leave me alone ! I am too
pure for thee. Touch me not ! Hath not my
world just now become perfect?
My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me
alone, thou dull, doltish, stupid day! Is not the
midnight brighter?
The purest are to be masters of the world, the
least known, the strongest, the midnight-souls, who
are brighter and deeper than any day.
O day, thou gropest for me? Thou feelest for
my happiness? For thee am I rich, lonesome, a
treasure-pit, a gold chamber ?
O world, thou wan test me? Ami worldly for
thee? Am I spiritual for thee? Am I divine for
thee ? But day and world, ye are too coarse, —
— Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happi-
ness, after deeper unhappiness, grasp after some
God ; grasp not after me :
— Mine unhappiness, my happiness is deep, thou
strange day, but yet am I no God, no God's-hell :
deep is its woe.
8.
God's woe is deeper, thou strange world ! Grasp
at God's woe, not at me ! What am I ! A drunken
sweet lyre, —
— A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog, which no one
understandeth, but which must speak before deaf
ones, ye higher men ! For ye do not understand me I
LXXIX.— THE DRUNKEN SONG. 395
Gone ! Gone ! O youth ! O noontide ! O after-
noon ! Now have come evening and night and
midnight, — the dog howleth, the wind :
— Is the wind not a dog ? It whineth, it barketh,
it howleth. Ah ! Ah ! how she sigheth ! how she
laugheth, how she wheezeth and panteth, the mid-
night !
How she just now speaketh soberly, this drunken
poetess ! hath she perhaps overdrunk her drunken-
ness ? hath she become overawake ? doth she rumi-
nate?
— Her woe doth she ruminate over, in a dream,
the old, deep midnight — and still more her joy.
For joy, although woe be deep, joy is deeper still
than grief can be.
Thou grape-vine! Why dost thou praise me?
Have I not cut thee ! I am cruel, thou bleedest — \
what meaneth thy praise of my drunken cruelty ?
"Whatever hath become perfect, everything
mature — wanteth to die ! " so sayest thou. Blessed,
blessed be the vintner's knife ! But everything
immature wanteth to live : alas !
Woe saith : "Hence! Go! Away, thou woe!"
But everything that suffereth wanteth to live, that
it may become mature and lively and longing,
— Longing for the further, the higher, the
brighter. " I want heirs," so saith everything that
suffereth, " I want children, I do not want myself I' —
Joy, however, doth not want heirs, it doth not
want children, — ^joy wanteth itself, it wanteth eter-
396 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
nity, it wanteth recurrence, it wanteth everything
eternally-like-itself.
Woe saith : " Break, bleed, thou heart ! Wander,
thou leg ! Thou wing, fly ! Onward ! upward !
thou pain ! " Well ! Cheer up ! O mine old
heart : Woe saith : " Hence ! Go ! "
lO.
Ye higher men, what think ye? Am I a sooth-
sayer ? Or a dreamer ? Or a drunkard ? Or a
dream-reader ? Or a midnight-bell ?
Or a drop of dew ? Or a fume and fragrance of
eternity ? Hear ye it not ? Smell ye it not ? Just
now hath my world become perfect, midnight is also
mid-day, —
Pain is also a joy, curse is also a blessing, night
is also a sun, — go away ! or ye will learn that a
sage is also a fool.
Said ye ever Yea to one joy? O my friends,
then said ye Yea also unto a// woe. All things are
enlinked, enlaced and enamoured, —
— Wanted ye ever once to come twice ; said ye
ever : " Thou pleasest me, happiness ! Instant !
Moment ! " then wanted ye a// to come back again !
— All anew, all eternal, all enlinked, enlaced and
enamoured, Oh, then did ye love the world, —
— Ye eternal ones, ye love it eternally and for all
time : and also unto woe do ye say : Hence ! Go !
but come back ! For joys all want — eternity I
II.
All joy wanteth the eternity of all things, it
wanteth honey, it wanteth lees, it wanteth drunken
LXXIX.— THE DRUNKEN SONG. 397
midnight, it wanteth graves, it wanteth grave-tears'
consolation, it wanteth gilded evening-red —
— IVkai doth not joy want ! it is thirstier,
heartier, hungrier, more frightful, more mysterious,
than all woe : it wanteth tlse//, it biteth into itse//^
the ring's will writheth in it, —
— It wanteth love, it wanteth hate, it is over-rich,
it bestoweth, it throweth away, it beggeth for some
one to take from it, it thanketh the taker, it would
fain be hated, —
— So rich is joy that it thirsteth for woe, for hell,
for hate, for shame, for the lame, for the world, —
for this world, Oh, ye know it indeed !
Ye higher men, for you doth it long, this joy, this
irrepressible, blessed joy — for your woe, ye failures !
For failures, longeth all eternal joy.
For joys all want themselves, therefore do they
also want grief! O happiness, O pain ! Oh break,
thou heart ! Ye higher men, do learn it, that joys
want eternity,
— Joys want the eternity of all things, they want
deep, profound eternity /
12.
Have ye now learned my song? Have ye
divined what it would say ? Well ! Cheer up !
Ye higher men, sing now my roundelay !
Sing now yourselves the song, the name of which
is " Once more," the signification of which is " Unto
all eternity ! " — sing, ye higher men, Zarathustra's
roundelay I
39^ THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
O man ! Take heed !
What saith deep mtdnighfs voice indeed?
" I slept my sleep — ,
• From deepest dream Fve woke, and plead : —
" The world is deep,
" And deeper than the day could read,
" Deep is its woe — ,
^^ Joy — deeper still than grief can be:
" Woe saith : Hence ! Go !
" But joys all want eternity — ,
" — Want deep, profound eternity ! "
LXXX.— THE SIGN.
In the morning, however, after this night, Zara-
thustra jumped up from his couch, and, having
girded his loins, he came out of his cave glowing
and strong, like a morning sun coming out of
gloomy mountains.
" Thou great star," spake he, as he had spoken
once before, "thou deep eye of happiness, what
would be all thy happiness if thou hadst not those
for whom thou shinest !
And if they remained in their chambers whilst
thou art already awake, and comest and bestowest
and distributest, how would thy proud modesty
upbraid for it !
Well ! they still sleep, these higher men, whilst /
am awake : they are not my proper companions !
Not for them do I wait here in my mountains.
At my work 1 want to be, at my day : but they
understand not what are the signs of my morning,
my step — is not for them the awakening-call.
t
LXXX.— THE SIGN. 399
They still sleep in my cave ; their dream still
drinketh at my drunken songs. The audient ear
for ine — the obedient ear, is yet lacking in their
limbs."
— This had Zarathustra spoken to his heart when
the sun arose : then looked he inquiringly aloft, for
he heard above him the sharp call of his eagle.
" Well ! " called he upwards, " thus is it pleasing and
proper to me. Mine animals are awake, for I am
awake.
Mine eagle is awake, and like me honoureth the
sun. With eagle-talons doth it grasp at the new
light. Ye are my proper animals ; I love you.
But still do I lack my proper men ! " —
Thus spake Zarathustra ; then, however, it
happened that all on a sudden he became aware
that he was flocked around and fluttered around, as
if by innumerable birds, — the whizzing of so many
wings, however, and the crowding around his head
was so great that he shut his eyes. And verily,
there came down upon him as it were a cloud, like
a cloud of arrows which poureth upon a new
enemy. But behold, here it was a cloud of love,
and showered upon a new friend.
" What happeneth unto me," thought Zarathustra
in his astonished heart, and slowly seated himself
on the big stone which lay close to the exit from
his cave. But while he grasped about with his hands,
around him, above him and below him, and repelled
the tender birds, behold, there then happened to
him something still stranger : for he grasped there-
by unawares into a mass of thick, warm, shaggy
400 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
hair ; at the same time, however, there sounded
before him a roar, — a long, soft lion-roar.
" The sign comethl' said Zarathustra, and a
change came over his heart. And in truth, when
it turned clear before him, there lay a yellow, power-
ful animal at his feet, resting its head on his knee,
— unwilling to leave him out of love, and doing
like a dog which again findeth its old master. The
doves, however, were no less eager with their love
than the lion ; and whenever a dove whisked over
its nose, the lion shook its head and wondered and
laughed.
When all this went on Zarathustra spake only a
word : " My children are nigh, my children " — ,
then he became quite mute. His heart, however,
was loosed, -\nd from his eyes there dropped down
tears and f*.ll upon his hands. And he took no
further notice of anything, but sat there motionless,
without repelling the animals further. Then flew
the doves to and fro, and perched on his shoulder,
and caressed his white hair, and did not tire of
their tenderness and joyousness. The strong lion,
however, licked always the tears that fell on Zara-
thustra's hands, and roared and growled shyly.
Thus did these animals do. —
All this went on for a long time, or a short time :
for properly speaking, there is no time on earth for
such things — . Meanwhile, however, the higher men
had awakened in Zarathustra's cave, and marshalled
themselves for a procession to go to meet Zara-
thustra, and give him their morning greeting : for
they had found when they awakened that he no
longer tarried with them. When, however, they
LXXX.— THE SIGN. 4OI
reached the door of the cave and the noise of their
steps had preceded them, the lion started violently ;
it turned away all at once from Zarathustra, and
roaring wildly, sprang towards the cave. The
higher men, however, when they heard the lion
roaring, cried all aloud as with one voice, fled back
and vanished in an instant.
Zarathustra himself, however, stunned and
strange, rose from his seat, looked around him,
stood there astonished, inquired of his heart,
bethought himself, and remained alone. " What
did I hear ? " said he at last, slowly, " what happened
unto me just now ? "
But soon there came to him his recollection, and
he took in at a glance all that had taken place
between yesterday and to-day. " Here is indeed
the stone," said he, and stroked his beard, " on it
sat I yester-morn ; and here came the soothsayer
unto me, and here heard I first the cry which I
heard just now, the great cry of distress.
O ye higher men, your distress was it that the
old soothsayer foretold to me yester-morn, —
— Unto your distress did he want to seduce and
tempt me : * O Zarathustra,' said he to me, ' I come
to seduce thee to thy last sin.'
To my last sin ? " cried Zarathustra, and laughed
angrily at his own words : " what hath been re-
served for me as my last sin ? "
— And once more Zarathustra became absorbed
in himself, and sat down again on the big stone
and meditated. Suddenly he sprang up, —
" Fellow-suffering ! Fellow-suffering with the
higher men I " he cried out, and his countenance
2C
402 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
changed into brass. "Well! 7/^^;/— hath had its
time !
My suffering and my fellow-suffering— what
matter about them ! Do I then strive after happi-
ness? I strive after my work!
Well! The lion hath come, my children are
nigh, Zarathustra hath grown ripe, mine hour hath
come : —
This is my morning, my day beginneth : arise
noWy arise, thou great noontide ! "
Thus spake Zarathustra and left his cave, glow-
ing and strong, like a morning sun coming out of
gloomy mountains.
APPENDIX,
NOTES ON -THUS SPAKE
ZARATHUSTRA."
By Anthony M. Ludovici.
I HAVE had some opportunities of studying the con
ditions under which Nietzsche is read in Germany,
France, and England, and I have found that, in each
of these countries, students of his philosophy, as if
actuated by precisely similar motives and desires, and
misled by the same mistaken tactics on the part of
most publishers, all proceed in the same happy-go-
lucky style when " taking him up." They have had
it said to them that he wrote without any system, and
they very naturally conclude that it does not matter
in the least whether they begin with his first, third, or
last book, provided they can obtain a few vague ideas
as to what his leading and most sensational principles
were.
Now, it is clear that the book with the most
mysterious, startling, or suggestive title, will always
stand the best chance of being purchased by those
who have no other criteria to guide them in their
choice than the aspect of a title-page; and this
explains why "Thus Spake_Zarathiistra" is almnst
always the first and often the only one of Niptz,srhft's -
iiuoks liiai luUb lalu the hands of the uninitiated.
The title suggests all kinds of mysteries ; a glance
406 APPENDIX.
at the chapter-headings quickly confirms the sus-
picions already aroused, and the sub-title : " A Book
for All and None," generally succeeds in dissipating
thfe last doubts the prospective purchaser may
entertain concerning his fitness for the book or its
fitness for him. And what happens ?
" Thus Spake Zarathustra " is taken home ; the
reader, who perchance may know no more concerning
Nietzsche than a magazine article has told him, tries
to read it and, understanding less than half he reads,
probably never gets further than the second or
third part, — and then only to feel convinced that
Nietzsche himself was "rather hazy" as to what he
was talking about. Such chapters as " The Child with
the Mirror," "In the Happy Isles," "The Grave-
Song," "Immaculate Perception," "The Stillest Hour,"
"The Seven Seals," and many others, are almost
utterly devoid of meaning to all those who do not
know something of Nietzsche's life, his aims and his
friendships.
As a matter of fact, "Thus Spake Zarathustra,"
though it is unquestionably Nietzsche's opus magnum^
is by no means the first of Nietzsche's works that the
beginner ought to undertake to read. The author
himself refers to it as the deepest_work_ever offered
to the German public, and elsewhere speaks of his
otherwritings as being necessary for the understanding
of it. But when it is remembered that in Zarathustra
we not only have the history of his most intimate ex-
periences, friendships, feuds, disappointments, triumphs
and the like, but that the very form in which they
are narrated is one which tends rather to obscure than
to throw light upon them, the difficulties which meet
the reader who starts quite unprepared will be seen
to be really formidable.
NOTES. 407
Zarathustra, then, — this shadowy, allegorical person-
ality, speaking in allegories and parables, and at times
not even refraining from relating his own dreams — is
a figure we can understand but very imperfectly if
we have no knowledge of his creator and counterpart,
Friedrich Nietzsche ; and it were therefore well, pre-
vious to our study of the more abstruse parts of this
book, if we were to turn to some authoritative book
on Nietzsche's life and works and to read all that is
there said on the subject. Those who can read
German will find an excellent guide, in this respect,
in Frau Foerster-Nietzsche's exhaustive and highly
interesting biography of her brother : " Das Leben
Friedrich Nietzsche's " (published by Naumann) ;
while the works of Deussen, Raoul Richter, and
Baroness Isabelle von Unger-Sternberg, will be found
to throw useful and necessary light upon many
questions which it would be difficult for a sister to
touch upon.
In regard to the actual philosophical views ex-
pounded in this work, there is an excellent way of
clearing up any difficulties they may present, and that
is by an appeal to Nietzsche's other works. Again
and again, of course, he will be found to express
himself so clearly that all reference to his other
writings may be dispensed with ; but where this is
not the case, the advice he himself gives is after all
the best to be followed here, viz. : — to regard such
works as: "Joyful Science," "Beyond Good and Evil,"
"The Genealogy of Morals," "The Twilight of the
Idols," "The Antichrist," "The Will to Power," &c.,
&c., as the necessary preparation for "Thus Spake
Zarathustra."
These directions, though they are by no means
siDiple to carry out, seem at least to possess the quality
408 APPENDIX.
of definiteness and straightforwardness. "Follow
them and all will be clear," I seem to imply. But I
regret to say that this is not really the case. For my
experience tells me that even after the above directions
have been followed with the greatest possible zeal, the
student will still halt in perplexity before certain
passages in the book before us, and wonder what
V they mean. Now, it is with the view of giving a
little additional help to all those who find themselves
in this position that I proceed to put forth my own
personal interpretation of the more abstruse passages
in this work.
In offering this little commentary to the Nietzsche
student, I should like it to be understood that I make
no claim as to its infallibility or indispensability. It
represents but an attempt on my part — a very feeble
one perhaps — to give the reader what little help I
can in surmounting difficulties which a long study of
Nietzsche's life and works has enabled me, partially
I hope, to overcome.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Perhaps it would be as well to start out with a
broad and rapid sketch of Nietzsche as a writer on
Morals, Evolution, and Sociology, so that the reader
may be prepared to pick out for himself, so to speak,
all passages in this work bearing in any way upon
Nietzsche's views in those three important branches
of knowledge.
(A. ) Nietzscht In, morality, Nietzsche, starts, out by adopting the
and Morality, position of the relativist. He says there ^^^^.x^.
aBsqSte^alues "g^H^Hind " evil " ; these are mere
means adopted by all Itt dMer tO'-acquire power to
maintain their place in the world, or to become
supreme. It is the lion's good to devour an antelope.
It is the dead-leaf butterfly's good to tell a foe a
NOTES. 4d9
falsehood. For when the dead-leaf butterfly is in
danger, it clings to the side of a twig, and what it
says to its foe is practically this : " I am not a
butterfly, I am a dead leaf, and can be of no use to
thee." This is a lie which is good to the butterfly,
for it preserves it. In nature every species of organic
being instinctively adopts and practises those acts
which most conduce to the prevalence or supremacy
of its kind. Once the most favourable order of
conduct is found, proved efficient and established,
it becomes the ruling morality of the species that
adopts it and bears them along to victory. All species
must not and cannot value alike, for what is the lion's
good is the antelope's evil and vice versa.
Concepts of good and evil are therefore, in their
^ origiB, Iflfiffely a means to an end, they are expedierifs
-feracquiring power.
Applying this principle to mankind, Nietzsche
attacked Christian moral values. He declared them
to be, like all other morals, merely an expedient for
protecting a certain type of man. In the case of
Christianity this type was, according to Nietzsche, a
low one.
Cbhfficting moral codes have been no more than
the conflicting weapons of diff"erent classes of men •
for in mankind there is a continual war between
the powerful, the noble, the strong, and the well-
constituted on the one side, and the impotent, the
mean, the weak, and the ill-constituted on the other.
The war is a war of moral principles. The morality
of the powerful class, Nietzsche calls noble- or master-
morality ; that of the weak and subordinate class
he calls slave morality. In the first morality it is the
eagle which, looking down upon a browsing lamb,
contends that "eating lamb is good." In the second,
Slave-Moral'
ity Compared.
410 APPENDIX.
the slave-morality, it is the lamb which, looking up
from the sward, bleats dissentingly : " eating lamb is
evil."
(^.) Tlie The first morality is active, creative, Dionysian.
^^^''^'n^*^, ^^^ second is passive, defensive,— to it belongs the
"struggle for existence."
Where attempts have not been made to reconcile the
two moralities, they may be described as follows: —
All is good in the noble morality which proceeds from
strength, power, health, well-constitutedness, happi-
ness, and awfiilness ; for, the motive force behind the
people practising it is " the struggle for power." The
antithesis "good and bad" to this first class means
the same as " noble " and " despicable." " Bad " in
the master-morality must be applied to the coward,
to all acts that spring from weakness, to the man with
"an eye to the main chance," who would forsake
everything in order to live.
With the second, the slave-morality, the case is
different. There, inasmuch as the community is an
oppressed, suffering, unemancipated, and weary one,
all thai will be held to be good which alleviates the
state of suffering. Pity, the obliging hand, the warm
heart, patience, industry, and humility — these are
unquestionably the qualities we shall here find flooded
with the light of approval and admiration ; because
they are the most useful qualities — ; they make life
endurable, they are of assistance in the " struggle for
existence" which is the motive force behind the
people practising this morality. To ttris class, all that
is awful is bad, in fact it is the evil par excellence.
Strength, health, superabundance of animal spirits and
power, are regarded with hate, suspicion, and fear by
the subordinate class.
Now Nietzsche believed that the first or the noble-
NOTES. 411
morality conduced to an ascent in the line of life;
because it was creative and active. On the other
hand, he believed that the second or slave-morality,
where it became paramount, led to degeneration,
because it was passive and defensive, wanting merely
to keep those who practised it alive. Hence his
earnest advocacy of noble-morality.
♦
Nietzsche as an evolutionist I shall have occasion (C.) Nietzsche
to define and discuss in the course of these notes andEvolution
(see Notes on Chap. LVL, par. 10, and on Chap.
LVIL). For the present let it suffice for us to know
that he accepted the " Development Hypothesis " as
an explanation of the origin of species : but he did
not halt where most naturalists have halted. -He- by - -*
no means repra^^gf^ mt^ ^ ^he hifjhest possible being .
-«ghich evolution could arrive at ; for though his
physical development may have reached its limit,
this is not the case with his mental or spiritual
attributes. If the process be a fact; if things have
become what they are, then, he contends, we may
describe no limit to man's aspirations. If he struggled
up from barbarism, and still more remotely from the
lower Primates, his ideal should be to surpass man
himself and reach Superman (see especially the
?rologue).
«
Nietzsche as a sociologist aims at an aristocratic {D.) Niettstht
arrangement of societ^.^^ He woulcThave us rear an <^nd Sociology.
] raceT Honest and truthful in intellectual
matters, he could not even think that men are equal.
" With these preachers of equality will I not be mixed
up and confounded. For thus speaketh justice unto
me: *Men are not equal.'" He sees precisely in
this inequality a purpose to be served, a condition
412 APPENDIX.
to be exploited. "Every elevation of the type
*man,'" he writes in "Beyond Good and Evil," "has
hitherto been the work of an aristocratic society — and
so will it always be — a society believing in a long
scale of gradations of rank and differences of worth
among human beings."
Those who are sufficiently interested to desire to
read his own detailed account of the society he would
fain establish, will find an excellent passage m
Aphorism 57 of "The Antichrist."
PART I. In Part I. including the Prologue, no very great
The Pro- difficulties will appear. Zarathustra's habit of
LOGUE. designating a whole class of men or a whole school
of thought by a single fitting nickname may perhaps
lead to a little confusion at first ; but, as a rule, when
the general drift of his arguments is grasped, it
requires but a slight effort of the imagination to
discover whom he is referring to. In the ninth
paragraph of the Prologue, for instance, it is quite
obvious that " Herdsmen " in the verse " Herdsmen,
I say, &c. &c.," stands for all those to-day who are
the advocates of gregariousness — of the ant-hill. And
when our author says : "A robber shall Zarathustra
be called by the herdsmen," it is clear that these
words may be taken almost literally from one whose
ideal was the rearing of a higher aristocracy. Again,
"the good and just," throughout the book, is the
expression used in referring to the self-righteous of
modern times, — those who are quite sure that they
know all that is to be known concerning good and
evil, and are satisfied that the values their little world
of tradition has handed down to them, are destined
to rule mankind as long as it lasts.
NOTES. 413
In the last paragraph of the Prologue, verse 7,
Zarathustra gives us a foretaste of his teaching con-
cerning the big and the little sagacities, expounded
subsequently. He says he would he were as wise as
his serpent ; this desire will be found explained in the
discourse entitled "The Despisers of the Body,"
which I shall have occasion to refer to later.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
This opening discourse is a parable in which The Dis-
Zarathustra discloses the mental development of all coursks.
creators of new values. It is the story of a life Chapter I.
which reaches its consummation in attaining to a ^^ Three
second ingenuousness or in returning to childhood. ' ^^^"'°''
Nietzsche, the supposed anarchist, here plainly
disclaims all relationship whatever to anarchy, for he
shows us that only by bearing the burdens of the
existing law and submitting to it patiently, as the
camel submits to being laden, does the free spirit
acquire that ascendancy over tradition which enables
him to meet and master the dragon " Thou shalt," —
the dragon with the values of a thousand years
glittering on its scales. There are two lessons in this
discourse : first, that in order to create one must be as
a little child ; secondly, that it is only through existing
law and order that one attains to that height from
which new law and new order may be promulgated.
Almost the whole of this is quite comprehensible. Chapter II.
It is a discourse against all those who confound virtue The Academic
with tameness and smug ease, and who regard as ^1^**'* °f
virtuous only that which promotes security and tends " "^*
to deepen sleep.
Here Zarathustra gives names to thg^ intellect and Chapter IV.
■ th^ instincts ! he calls the one "the litt]e sagarity" and "^^ Despisers
the latter " the big sagacity." Schopenhauer's teaching °^ ^^"^ ^'^^•
concerning the intellect is fully endorsed here. " An
414 APPENDIX.
instrument of thy body is also thy little sagacity, my
brother, which thou callest ' spirit,' " says Zarathustra.
From beginning to end it is a warning to those who
would think too lightly of the instincts and unduly
exalt the intellect and its derivatives : Reason and
Understanding.
Chapter IX. This is an analysis of the psychology of all those
The Preachers ^ho have the " evil eye " and are pessimists by virtue
of Death. q£ ^jjgjj. constitutions.
Chapter XV. In this discourse Zarathustra opens his exposition
The Thousand of the doctrine of relativity in morality, and declares
^"^ *-*"^ all morahty to hfi a msrt^ m*'"*^'^ ^'^ pn^ggf Needless
to say that verses 9, 10, 11, and 12 refer to the Greeks,
the Persians, the Jews, and the Germans respectively.
In the penultimate verse he makes known his dis-
covery concerning the root of modern Nihilism and
indifference, — i.e., that modern man has no goal, no
aim, no ideals (see Note A).
Chapter Nietzsche's views on women have either to be loved
XVIII. at first sight or they become perhaps the greatest
Old and obstacle in the way of those who otherwise would be
Women. inclined to accept his philosophy. Women especially,
of course, have been taught to dislike them, because
it has been rumoured that his views are unfriendly
to themselves. Now, to my mind, all this is pure
misunderstanding and error.
German philosophers, thanks to Schopenhauer, have
earned rather a bad name for their views on women.
It is almost impossible for one of them to write a
line on the subject, however kindly he may do so,
without being suspected of wishing to open a crusade
against the fair sex. Despite the fact, therefore, that
all Nietzsche's views in this respect were dictated to
him by the profoundest love; despite Zarathustra's
reservation in this discourse, that "with women
NOTES. 415
nothing [that can be said] is impossible," and in the
face of other overwhelming evidence to the contrary,
Nietzsche is universally reported to have mis son pied
dans U plat, where the female sex is concerned. And
what is the fundamental doctrine which has given rise
to so much bitterness and aversion? — Merely this:
that the sexes are at bottom antagonistic — that is to
say, as different as blue is from yellow,~and that the
best possible means of rearing anything approaching
a desirable race is to preserve and to foster this
profound hostility. What Nietzsche strives to combat
and to overthrow is the modem democratic tendency
which is slowly labouring to level all things— even
the sexes. His quarrel is not with women — what
indeed could be more undignified ? — it is with those
who would destroy the natural relationship between
the sexes, by modifying either the one or the other
with a view to making them more alike. The human
worid is just as dependent upon women's powers as
upon men's. It is women's strongest and most
valuable instincts which help to determine who are
to be the fathers of the next generation. By destroying
these particular instincts, that is to say by attempting
to masculinise woman, and to feminise men, we
jeopardise the future of our people. ^ Jhe generaJL.
— ^^^^PQcratic moy^mept of modern times, in its_frantic
__^fltrHggle to mitigate all differences, is now invading
.^^en the worid of sex. It is against this movement
that Nietzsche raises his voice ; he would have woman
become ever more woman and man become ever
more man. Only thus, and he is undoubtedly right,
can their combined instincts lead to the excellence
of humanity. Regarded in this light, all his views on
woman appear not only necessary but just (see Note
on Chap. LVI., par. ai).
4i6
APPENDIX.
Chapter XXI
Voluntary
Death.
Chapter
XXII.
The Bestow-
ing Virtue.
It is interesting to observe that the last line of the
discourse, which has so frequently been used by women
as a weapon against Nietzsche's views concerning them,
was suggested to Nietzsche by a woman (see " Das
Leben F. Nietzsche's " ).
In regard to this discourse, I should only like to
point out that Nietzsche had a particular aversion to
the word "suicide" — self-murder. He disliked the
evil it suggested, and in rechristening the act Voluntary
Death, i.e., the death that comes from no other hand
than one's own, he was desirous of elevating it to the
position it held in classical antiquity (see Aphorism 36
in " The Twilight of the Idols " ).
An important aspect of Nietzsche's philosophy is
brought to light in this discourse. His teaching, as
is well known, places the Aristotelian man of spirit,
above all others in the natural divisions of man. The
man with overflowing strength, both of mind and
body, who must discharge this strength or perish, is
the Nietzschean ideal. To such a man, giving from
his overflow becomes a necessity ; bestowing develops
into a means of existence, and this is the only giving,
the only charity, that Nietzsche recognises. In para-
graph 3 of the discourse, we read Zarathustra's
healthy exhortation to his disciples to become inde-
pendent thinkers and to find themselves before they
learn any more from him (see Notes on Chaps. LVI.,
par. 5, and LXXIII., pars. 10, 11).
PART II.
Chapter
XXIII.
The Child
with the
Mirror.
Nietzsche tells us here, in a poetical form, how
deeply grieved he was by the manifold misinterpreta-
tions and misunderstandings which were becoming
rife concerning his publications. He does not recog-
nise himself in the mirror of public opinion, and
NOTES. 417
recoils terrified from the distorted reflection of his
features. In verse 20 he gives us a hint which it
were well not to pass over too lightly; for, in the
introduction to "The Genealogy of Morals" (written
in 1887) he finds it necessary to refer to the matter
again and with greater precision. The point is this,
that a creator of new values meets with his surest and
strongest' obstacles in the very spirit of the language
which is at his disposal. Words, like all other mani-
festations of an evolving race, are stamped with the
values that have long been paramount in that race.
Now, the original thinker who finds himself com-
pelled to use the current speech of his country in
order to impart new and hitherto untried views to
his fellows, imposes a task upon the natural means
of communication which it is totally unfitted to per-
form,— hence the obscurities and prolixities which
are so frequently met with in the writings of original
thinkers. In the " Dawn of Day," Nietzsche actually
cautions young writers against the danger of alloiving
their thoughts to be moulded by the words at their
disposal.
While writing this, Nietzsche is supposed to have Chapter
been thinking of the island of Ischia which was ulti- XXIV.
mately destroyed by an earthquake. His teaching here ^" ^^^ Happy
is quite clear. He was among the first thinkers of ^^'^
Europe to overcome the pessimism which godlessness
generally brings in its wake. He points to creating
as the surest salvation from the suffering which is a
concomitant of all higher life. " What would there be
to create," he asks, " if there were— Gods?" His ideal,
the Superman, lends him the cheerfulness necessary to
the overcoming of that despair usually attendant upon
godlessness and upon the apparent aimlessness of a
world without a ^jod.
2 O
4i8
APPENDIX.
Chapter
XXIX.
The
Tarantulas.
Chapter
XXX.
The Famous
Wise Ones.
Chapter
XXXIII.
The Grave-
Song.
Chapter
XXXIV.
Self-
Surpassing,
The tarantulas are the Socialists and Democrats.
This discourse offers us an analysis of their mental
attitude. Nietzsche refuses to be confounded with
those resentful and revengeful ones who condemn
society from below, and whose criticism is only sup-
pressed envy. "There are those who preach my
doctrine of life," he says of the Nietzschean Socialists,
"and are at the same time preachers of equality
and tarantulas" (see Notes on Chap. XL. and
Chap. LI.).
This refers to all those philosophers hitherto, who
have run in the harness of established values and have
not risked their reputation with the people m pursuit
of truth. The philosopher, however, as Nietzsche
understood him, is a man who creates new values,
and thus leads mankind in a new direction.
Here Zarathustra sings about the ideals and friend-
ships of his youth. Verses 27 to 31 undoubtedly
refer to Richard Wagner (see Note on Chap.
LXV.).
In this discourse we get the best exposition in the
whole book of Nietzsche's doctrine of the Will to
Power. I go into this question thoroughly in the
Note on Chap. LVII.
Nietzsche was not an iconoclast from choice.
Those who hastily class him with the anarchists (or
the Progressivists of the last century) fail to under-
stand the high esteem in which he always held
both law and discipline. In verse 41 of this most
decisive discourse he truly explains his position when
he says: "... he who hath to be a creator in
good and evil — verily he hath first to be a destroyer,
and break values in pieces." This teaching in regard
to self-control is evidence enough of his reverence
for law.
NOTES. 419
These belong to a type which Nietzsche did not Chapter
altogether dislike, but which he would fain have XXXV.
rendered more subtle and plastic. It is the type ^^^ Sublime
that takes life and itself too seriously, that never
surmounts the camel-stage mentioned in the first
discourse, and that is obdurately sublime and earnest.
To be able to smile while speaking of lofty things
and not to be oppressed by them, is the secret of real
greatness. He whose hand trembles when it lays
hold of a beautiful thing, has the quality of reverence,
without the artist's unembarrassed friendship with
the beautiful. Hence the mistakes which have arisen
in regard to confounding Nietzsche with his extreme
opposites the anarchists and agitators. For what
they dare to touch and break with the impudence
and irreverence of the unappreciative, he seems like-
wise to touch and break,— but with other fingers —
with the fingers of the loving and unembarrassed artist
who is on good terms with the beautiful and who feels
able to create it and to enhance it with his touch.
The question of taste plays an important part in
Nietzsche's philosophy, and verses 9, 10 of this
discourse exactly state Nietzsche's ultimate views on
the subject. In the " Spirit of Gravity," he actually
cries: — "Neither a good nor a bad taste, but my
taste, of which I have no longer either shame or
secrecy."
This is a poetical epitome of some of the scathing Chapter
criticism of scholars which appears in the first of the XXXVI.
" Thoughts out of Season "—the polemical pamphlet ^^* ^"^ °^
(written in 1873) against David Strauss and his school. ^"'^"'*-
He reproaches his former colleagues with being sterile
and shows them that their sterility is the result of
their not believing in anything. "He who had to
create, had always his presaging dreams and astral
420
APPENDIX.
Chapter
XXXVI 1.
Immaculate
Perception.
Chapter
XXXVIff.
Scholars.
premonvtions — and believed in believing ! " (See
Note on Chap. LXXVII.) In the last two verses he
reveals the nature of his altruism. How far it differs
from that of Christianity we have already read in the
discourse "Neighbour-Love," but here he tells us
definitely the nature of his love to mankind; he
explains why he was compelled to assail the Christian
values of pity and excessive love of the neighbour,
not only because they are slave-values and therefore
tend to promote degeneration (see Note B.), but
because he could only love his children's land, the
undiscovered land in a remote sea ; because he
would fain retrieve the errors of his fathers in his
children.
An important feature of Nietzsche's interpretation
of Life is disclosed in this discourse. As Buckle
suggests in his " Influence of Women on the Progress
of Knowledge," the scientific spirit of the investigator
is both helped and supplemented by the latter's
einotions and personality, and the divorce of all
emotionalism and individual temperament fi-om
science is a fatal step towards sterility. Zarathustra
abjures all those who would fain turn an impersonal
eye upon nature and contemplate her phenomena
with that pure objectivity to which the scientific
idealists of to-day would so much like to attain. He
accuses such idealists of hypocrisy and guile ; he says
they lack innocence in their desires and therefore
slander all desiring.
This is a record of Nietzsche's final breach with his
former colleagues — the scholars of Germany. Already
after the publication of the "Birth of Tragedy,"
numbers of German philologists and professional
philosophers had denounced him as one who had
strayed too far from their flock, and his lectures at
NOTES. 421
the University of Bale were deserted in consequence ;
but it was not until 1879, when he finally severed all
connection with University work, that he may be
said to have attained to the freedom and indejiend-
ence which stam^) this discourse.
People have sometimes said that Nietzsche had no Chapter
sense of humour. I have no intention of defending XXXIX.
him here against such foolish critics ; I should only ^^*^^-
like to point out to the reader that we have him
here at his best, poking fun at himself, and at his
fellow-poets (see Note on Chap. LXIIL, pars. 16,
17, 18, 19, 20).
Here we seem to have a puzzle. Zarathustra him- Chapter XL.
self, while relating his experience with the fire-dog Great Events,
to his disciples, fails to get them interested in his
narrative, and we also may be only too ready to turn
over these pages under the impression that they are
little more than a mere phantasy or poetical flight.
Zarathustra's interview with the fire-dog is, however,
of great importance. In it we find Nietzsche face to
face with the creature he most sincerely loathes—
the spirit of revolution, and we obtain fresh hints
concerning his hatred of the anarchist and rebel.
"'Freedom' ye all roar most eagerly," he says to
the fire-dog, " but I have unlearned the belief in
•Great Events' when there is much roaring and
smoke about them. Not around the inventors of
new noise, but around the inventors of new values,
doth the world revolve ; inaudihly it revolveth."
This refers, of course, to Schopenhauer. Nietzsche, chapter XLI.
as is well known, was at one time an ardent follower The Sooth-
of Schopenhauer. He overcame Pessimism by sayer.
discovering an object in existence; he saw the
possibility of raising society to a higher level and
preached the profoundest Optimism in consequence.
422
APPENDIX.
Chapter
XLII.
Redemption.
Chapter
XLIII.
Manly
Prudence.
Zarathustra here addresses cripples. He tells
them of other cripples — the great nien in this world
who have one organ or faculty inordinately developed
at the cost of their other faculties. This is doubtless
a reference to a fact which is too often noticeable in
the case of so many of the world's giants in art,
science, or religion. In verse 19 we are told what
Nietzsche called Redemption — that is to say, the
ability to say of all that is past : "Thus would I
have it." The inability to say this, and the resent-
ment which results therefrom, he regards as the
source of all our feelings of revenge, and all our
desires to punish — punishment meaning to him
merely a euphemism for the word revenge, invented
in order to still our consciences. He who can be
proud of his enemies, who can be grateful to them
for the obstacles they have put in his way ; he who
can regard his worst calamity as but the extra strain
on the bow of his life, which is to send the arrow of
his longing even further than he could have hoped ; —
this man knows no revenge, neither does he know
despair, he truly has found redemption and can turn
on the worst in his life and even in himself, and call
it his best (see Notes on Chap. LVH.).
This discourse is very important. In "Beyond
Good and Evil " we hear often enough that the select
and superior man must wear a mask, and here we find
this injunction explained. " And he who would not
languish amongst men, must learn to drink out of all
glasses : and he who would keep clean amongst men,
must know how to wash himself even with dirty water."
This, I venture to suggest, requires some explanation.
At a time when individuality is supposed to be shown
most tellingly by putting boots on one's hands and
gloves on one's feet, it is somewhat refreshing to come
NOTES. 423
across a true individualist who feels the chasm between
himself and others so deeply, that he must per-
force adapt himself to them outwardly, at least, in
all respects, so that the inner difference should be
overlooked. Nietzsche practically tells us here that it
is not he who intentionally wears eccentric clothes or
does eccentric things who is truly the individualist.
The profound man, who is by nature differentiated
from his fellows, feels this difference too keenly to call
attention to it by any outward show. He is shamefast
and bashful with those who surround him and wishes
not to be discovered by them, just as one instinctively
avoids all lavish display of comfort or wealth in the
presence of a poor friend.
This seems to me to give an account of the great Chapter
struggle which must have taken place in Nietzsche's XLIV.
soul before he finally resolved to make known the ^l^* ^^'"*^
more esoteric portions of his teaching. Our deepest
feelings crave silence. There is a certain self-respect
in the serious man which makes him hold his pro-
foundest feelings sacred. Before they are uttered they
are full of the modesty of a virgin, and often the
oldest sage will blush like a girl when this virginity is
violated by an indiscretion which forces him to reveal
his deepe'^t thoughts.
This is perhaps the most important of all the four PART III.
parts. If it contained only "The Vision and the
Enigma " and " The Old and New Tables " I should
still be of this opinion ; for in the former of these
discourses we meet with what Nietzsche regarded as
the crowning doctrine of his philosophy and in " The
Old and New Tables " we have a valuable epitome oi
practically all his leading principles.
424
APPENDIX.
Qiapter
XLVI.
The Vision
and the
Enijrma
"The Vision and the Enigma" is perhaps an
example of Nietzsche in his most obscure vein. We
must know how persistently he inveighed against the
oppressing and depressing influence of man's sense of
guilt and consciousness of sin in order fully to grasp
the significance of this discourse. Slowly but surely,
he thought the values of Christianity and Judaic
traditions had done their work in the minds of men.
What were once but expedients devised for the
discipline of a certain portion of humanity, had now
passed into man's blood and had become instincts.
This oppressive and paralysing sense of guilt and of
sin is what Nietzsche refers to when he speaks of
" the spirit of gravity." This creature half-dwarf, half-
mole, whom he bears with him a certain distance on
his climb and finally defies, and whom he calls his
devil and arch-enemy, is nothing more than the heavy
millstone "guilty conscience," together with the con-
cept of sin which at present hangs round the neck of
men. To rise above it — to soar — is the most difficult
of all things to-day. Nietzsche is able to think cheer-
fully and optimistically of the possibility of life in this
world recurring again and again, when he has once cast
the dwarf from his shoulders, and he announces his
doctrine of the ttoLalRgfiJ rrenre of all things great
and small to his arch-enemy and in defiance of him.
That there is much to be said for Nietzsche's
hypothesis of the Eternal Recurrence of all things
great and small, nobody who has read the literature
on the subject will doubt for an instant; but it
remains a very daring conjecture notwithstanding atid
even in its ultimate effect, as a dogma, on the minds
of men, I venture to doubt whether Nietzsche ever
properly estimated its worth (see Note on Chap.
LVIL).
NOTES. 425
^V^^at follows is clear enough. Zarathustra sees a
young shepherd struggling on the ground with a
snake holding fast to the back of his throat. The
sage, assuming that the snake must have crawled into
the young man's mouth while he lay sleeping, runs
to his help and pulls at the loathsome reptile with all
his might, but in vain. At last, in despair, Zarathustra
appeals to the young man's will. Knowing full well
what a ghastly operation he is recommending, he
nevertheless cries, " Bite ! Bite ! Its head off! Bite ! "
as the only possible solution of the difficulty. The
young shepherd bites, and far away he spits the
snake's head, whereupon he rises, " No longer shep-
herd, no longer man— a transfigured being, a light-
surrounded being, that laughed! Never on earth
laughed a man as he laughed ! "
In this parable the young shepherd is obviously the
man of to-day ; the snake that chokes him represents
the stultifying and paralysing social values that threaten
to shatter humanity, and the advice " Bite ! Bite ! "
is but Nietzsche's exasperated cry to mankind to alter
their values before it is too late.
This, like " The Wanderer," is one of the many Chapter
introspective passages in the work, and is full ofXLVri.
innuendos and hints as to the Nietzschean outlook }nyol"ntary
... Bliss,
on hfe.
Here we have a record of Zarathustra's avowal of Chapier
optimism, as also the important statement concerning XLVIII.
"Chance" or "Accident" (verse 27). Those who ^^J^^^l^
are familiar with Nietzsche's philosophy will not
require to be told what an important rdle his doctrine
of chance plays in his teaching. The Giant Chance
has hitherto played with the puppet " man,"— this is
the fact he cannot contemplate with equanimity.
Man shall now exploit chance, he says again and
426
APPENDIX.
Chaptsr
XLIX.
The Bedwarf-
ing Virtue.
again, and make it fall on its knees before him !
(see verse 33 in "On the Olive Mount," and verses
9-10 in "The Bedwarfing Virtue").
This requires scarcely any comment. It is a satire
on modern man and his belittling virtues. In verses
23 and 24 of the second part of the discourse we are
reminded of Nietzsche's powerful indictment of the
great of to-day, in the Antichrist (Aphorism 43) : —
"At present nobody has any longer the courage for
separate rights, for rights of domination, for a feeling
of reverence for himself and his equals,— ;/^r pathos of
distance. . . . Our politics are morbid from this want
of courage ! — The aristocracy of character has been
undermined most craftily by the lie of the equality
of souls; and if the belief in the 'privilege of the
many,' makes revolutions and will continue to make
them, it is Christianity, let us not doubt it, it is
Christian valuations, which translate every revolution
merely into blood and crime!" (see also "Beyond
Good and Evil," pp. 120, 121). Nietzsche thought
it was a bad sign of the times that even rulers have
lost the courage of their positions, and that a man of
Frederick the Great's power and distinguished gifts
should have been able to say: "Ich bin der erste
Diener des Staates" (I am the first servant of the
State). To this utterance of the great sovereign, verse
24 undoubtedly refers. "Cowardice" and "Medio-
crity," are the names with which he labels modern
notions of virtue and moderation.
In Part III., we get the sentiments of the discourse
" In the Happy Isles," but perhaps in stronger terms.
Once again we find Nietzsche thoroughly at ease, if
not cheerful, as an atheist, and speaking with ver-
tiginous daring of making chance go on its knees to
him. In verse 20, Zarathustra makes yet another
NOTES. 427
attempt at defining his entirely anti anarchical attitude,
and unless such passages have been completely over-
looked or deliberately ignored hitherto by those who
will persist in laying anarchy at his door, it is im-
possible to understand how he ever became associated
with that foul political party.
The last verse introduces the expression, " the great
noontide ! " In the poem to be found at the end of
" Beyond Good and Evil," we meet with the expres-
sion again, and we shall find it occurring time and
again in Nietzsche's works. It will be found fully
elucidated in the fifth part of "The Twilight of the
Idols " ; but for those who cannot refer to this book,
it were well to point out that Nietzsche called the
present period— our period— the noon of man's history.
Dawn is behind us. The childhood of mankind is
over. Now we knaiv; there is now no longer any
excuse for mistakes which will tend to botch and
disfigure the type man. "With respect to what is
past," he says, " I have, like all discerning ones, great
toleration, that is to say, generous self-control. . . .
But my feeling changes suddenly, and breaks out as
soon as I enter the modern period, our period. Our
age knows. . . ." (see Note on Chap. LXX.).
Here we find Nietzsche confronted with his Chapter LI.
extreme opposite, with him therefore for whom he f^"^*^*
is most frequently mistaken by the unwary. " Zara- '"^' ^^
thustra's ape" he is called in the discourse. He is
one of those at whose hands Nietzsche had to suffer
most during his life-time, and at whose hands his
philosophy has suffered most since his death. In
this respect it may seem a little trivial to speak of
extremes meeting ; but it is wonderfully apt. Many
have adopted Nietzsche's mannerisms and word-
coinages, who had nothing in common with him
428 APPENDIX.
beyond the ideas and "business" they plagiarised,
but the superficial observer and a large portion of the
public, not knowing of these things,— not knowing
perhaps that there are iconoclasts who destroy out
of love and are therefore creators, and that there are
others who destroy out of resentment and revenge-
fulness and who are therefore revolutionists and
anarchists, — are prone to confound the two, to the
detriment of the nobler type.
If we now read what the fool says to Zarathustra,
and note the tricks of speech he has borrowed from
him : if we carefully follow the attitude he assumes,
we shall understand why Zarathustra finally interrupts
him. "Stop this at once," Zarathustra cries, "long
have thy speech and thy species disgusted me. . . .
Out of love alone shall my contempt and my warning
bird take wing ; but not out of the swamp ! " It
were well if this discourse were taken to heart by
all those who are too ready to associate Nietzsche
with lesser and noisier men,— with mountebanks and
mummers.
Chapter LI I. It is clear that this applies to all those breathless
Apostates ^"^ ^^^^^ "tasters of everything," who plunge too
posaes: rashly into the sea of independent thought and
"heresy," and who, having miscalculated their
strength, find it impossible to keep their head above
water. "A little older, a little colder," says Nietzsche.
They soon clamber back to the conventions of the
age they intended reforming. The French then say,
"/e diable se fait hermite,'' h\i\. these men, as a rule,
have never been devils, neither do they become
angels ; for, in order to be really good or evil, some
strength and deep breathing is required. Those wh^
are more interested in supporting orthodoxy than in
being over nice concerning the kind of support they
NOTES. 429
give It, often refer to these people as evidence in
favour of the true laith.
This is an example of a class of writing which may Chapter LI 11
be passed over too lightly by those whom poetasters The Return
have made distrustful of poetry. From first to last H°™c.
it is extremely valuable as an autobiographical note.
The inevitable superficiality of the rabble is con-
trasted with the peaceful and profound depths of the
anchorite. Here we first get a direct hint concern-
ing Nietzsche's fundamental passion — the main force
behind all his new values and scathing criticism of
existing values. In verse 30 we are told that pity
was his greatest danger. The broad altruism of the
law-giver, thinking over vast eras of time, was con-
tinually being pitted by Nietzsche, in himseir,
against that transient and meaner sympathy for the
neighbour whichUie more perhaps than any of his con
temporaries had suffered from, but which he was certain
involved enormous dangers not only for himself but
also to the next and subsequent generations (see Note
B., where " pity " is mentioned among the degenerate
virtues). Later in the book we shall see how his
profound compassion leads him into temptation, and
how frantically he struggles against it. In verses 31
and 32, he tells us to what extent he had to modify
himself in order to be endured by his fellows whom
he loved (see also verse 12 in "Manly Prudence";
Nietzsche's great love for his fellows, which he
confesses in the Prologue, and which is at the root
of all his teaching, seems rather to elude the discerning
powers of the average philanthropist and modern
man. He cannot see the wood for the trees. A
philanthropy that sacrifices the minority of the
present-day for the majority constituting posterity,
completely evades his mental grasp, and Nietzsche's
430 APPENDIX.
philosophy, because it declares Christian values to
be a danger to the future of our kind, is therefore
shelved as brutal, cold, and hard (see Note on
Chap. XXXVI.). Nietzsche tried to be all things to
all men; he was sufficiently fond of his fellows for
that : in the Return Home he describes how he
ultimately returns to loneliness in order to recover
from the effects of his experiment.
Chapter LIV. Nietzsche is here completely in his element. Three
The Three things hitherto best-cursed and most calumniated on
Evil Things, garth, are brought forward to be weighed. Voluptuous-
- nfiSB, ^h^»-g«^ of p?^er, and selfishness^ — the mree fn^rfts ,
in humanity which Christianity has done most to
'Serbia and besmirch,:— Nietzsche endeavours to rein-
state in their former piaces of honour. Voluptuous-
ness, or sensual pleasure, is a dangerous thing to discuss
nowadays. If we mention it with favour we may be
regarded, however unjustly, as the advocate of savages,
satyrs, and pure sensuality. If we condemn it, we
either go over to the Puritans or we join those who are
wont to come to table with no edge to their appetites
and who therefore grumble at all good fare. There
can be no doubt that the value of healthy innocent
voluptuousness, Hke the value of health itself, must
have been greatly discounted by all those who, resent-
ing their inability to partake of this world's goods,
cried like St Paul : '* I would that all men were even
as I myself" Now Nietzsche's philosophy might be
called an attempt at giving back to healthy and
normal men innocence and a clean conscience in
their desires — noi to applaud the vulgar sensualists
who respond to every stimulus and whose passions
are out of hand ; not to tell the mean, selfish individual,
whose selfishness is a pollution (see Aphorism 33,
*' Twilight of the Idols"), that he is right, nor to assure
NOTES. 431
the weak, the sick, and the crippled, that the thirst of
power, which they gratify by exploiting the happier
and healthier individuals, is justified; — but to save
the clean healthy man from the values of those around
him, who look at everything through the mud that is
in their own bodies,— to give him, and him alone, a
clean conscience in his manhood and the desires
of his manhood. •* Do I counsel you to slay your
instincts? I counsel to innocence in your instincts."
In verse 7 of the second paragraph (as in verse i of
par. 19 in "The Old and New Tables") Nietzsche
gives us a reason for his occasional obscurity (see also
verses 3 to 7 of " Poets "). As I have already pointed
out, his philosophy is quite esoteric. It can serve
no purpose with the ordinary, mediocre type of man.
I, personally, can no longer have any doubt that
Nietzsche's only object, in that part of his philosophy
where he bids his friends stand " Beyond Good and
Evil " with him, was to save higher men, whose growths
and scope might be limited by the too strict observance
of modern values from foundering on the rocks of a
"Compromise" between their own genius and tradi-
tional conventions. The only possible way in which
the great man can achieve greatness is by means of
exceptional freedom — the freedom which assists him
in experiencing himself. Verses 20 to 30 afford an
excellent supplement to Nietzsche's description of the
altitude of the noble type towards the slaves in
Aphorism 260 of the work " Beyond Good and Evil"
(see also Note B.).
(See Note on Chap. XLVI.) In Part II. of this Chapter LV.
discourse we meet with a doctrine not touched upon The Spirit of
hitherto, save indirectly;—! refer to the doctrine of ^"^*^y-
self-love. We should try to understand this perfectly
before proceeding; for it is precisely views of this
432 APPENDIX,
sort which, after having been cut out of the original
context, are repeated far and wide as internal evidence
proving the general unsoundness of Nietzsche's philo-
sophy. Already in the last of the " Thoughts out of
Season" Nietzsche speaks as follows about modern
men :*'... these modern creatures wish rather to
be hunted down, wounded and torn to shreds, than
to live alone with themselves in solitary calm. Alone
with oneself! — this thought terrifies the modern soul ;
it is his one anxiety, his one ghastly fear" (English
Edition, p. 141). In his feverish scurry to find
entertainment and diversion, whether in a novel, a
newspaper, or a play, the modern man condemns his
own age utterly; for he shows that in his heart of
hearts he despises himself. One cannot change a
condition of this sort in a day; to become endurable
to oneself an inner transformation is necessary. Too
long have we lost ourselves in our friends and enter-
tainments to be able to find ourselves so soon at
another's bidding. "And verily, it is no command-
ment for to-day and to-morrow to learn to love oneself
Rather is it of all arts the finest, subtlest, last, and
patientest."
In the last verse Nietzsche challenges us to show
that our way is the right way. In his teaching he does
not coerce us, nor does he overpersuade ; he simply
says : " I am a law only for mine own, I am not a law
for all. This — is now my way, — where is yours ? "
Chapter LVI. Nietzsche himself declares this to be the most
Old and New decisive portion of the whole of " Thus Si)ake
II^^?' Zarathustra." It is a sort of epitome of his leading
doctrines. In verse 12 of the second paragraph, we
learn how he himself would fain have abandoned the
poetical method of expression had he not known
only too well that the only chance a new doctrine
Par. a.
NOTES. 433
has of surviving, nowadays, depends upon its being
given to the world in some kind of art-form. Just
as prophets, centuries ago, often had to have recourse
to the mask of madness in order to mitigate the
hatred of those who did not and could not see as
they did ; so, to day, the struggle for existence among
opinions and values is so great, that an art-form is
practically the only garb in which a new philosophy
can dare to introduce itself to us.
Many of the paragraphs will be found to be merely
reminiscent of former discourses. For instance,
par. 3 recalls " Redemption." The last verse of Par. 3.
par. 4 is important. Freedom which, as I have Par. 4.
pointed out before, Nietzsche considered a danger-
ous acquisition in inexperienced or unworthy hands,
here receives its death-blow as a general desideratum.
In the first Part we read under "The Way of the
Creating One," that freedom as an end in itself does
not concern Zarathustra at all. He says there:
'LFree from what ? What doth that matter to Zara-
thustra? Clearly, however, shall thine eye answer
me: free for whatV* And in "The Bedwarfing
Virtue " : "Ah that ye understood my word : ' Do
ever what ye will — but first be such as can will.' "
Here we have a description of the kind of altruism Par. 5,
Nietzsche exacted from higher men. It is really
a comment upon "The Bestowing Virtue" (see
Note on Chap. XXII.).
This refers, of course, to the reception pioneers Par. 6.
of Nietzsche's stamp meet with at the hands of their
contemporaries.
Nietzsche teaches that nothing is stable, — not even Par. S.
values, — not even the concepts good and evil. He
likens life unto a stream. But foot-bridges and
railings span the stream, and they seem to stand firm.
434 APPENDIX.
Many will be reminded of good and evil when they
look upon these structures; for thus these same
values stand over the stream of life, and life flows on
beneath them and leaves them standing. When,
however, winter comes and the stream gets frozen,
many inquire : " Should not everything — stand stiLlI
Fundamentally everything standeth still." But soon
the spring cometh and with it the thaw-wind. It
breaks the ice, and the ice breaks down the foot-
bridges and railings, whereupon everything is swept
away. This state of affairs, according to Nietzsche,
has now been reached. "O, my brethren, is not
Q.vQ\y\ki\n% at present in flux 1 Have not all railings
and foot-bridges fallen into the water ? Who would
still hold on to ' good ' and ' evil ' ? "
Par. 9. This is complementary to the first three verses
of par. 2.
Par. la So far, this is perhaps the most important paragraph.
It is a protest against reading a moral order of things
in life. " Life is something essentially immoral ! "
Nietzsche tells us in the introduction to the " Birth
of Tragedy." Even to call life "activity," or to define
it further as "the continuous adjustment of internal
relations to external relations," as Spencer has it,
Nietzsche characterises as a "democratic idiosyncracy."
He says to define it in this way, " is to mistake the
true nature and function of life, which is Will to
Power. . . . Life is essentially appropriation, injury,
conquest of the strange and weak, suppression,
severity, obtrusion of its own forms, incorporation
and at least, putting it mildest, exploitation." Adapta-
tion is merely a secondary activity, a mere re-activity
(see Note on Chap. LVIL).
Pars. II, 12. These deal with Nietzsche's principle of the
desirability of rearing a select race. The biological
NOTES. 435
and historical grounds for his insistence upon this
principle are, of course, manifold. Gobineau in his
great work, " L'Inegalite des Races Humaines,'' lays
strong emphasis upon the evils which arise from
promiscuous and inter-social marriages. He alone
would suffice to carry Nietzsche's point against all
those who are opposed to the other conditions, to
the conditions which would have saved Rome, which
have maintained the strength of the Jewish race,
and which are strictly maintained by every breeder
of animals throughout the world. Darwin in his
remarks relative to the degeneration of cultivated
types of animals through the action of promiscuous
breeding, brings Gobineau support from the realm of
biology.
The last two verses of par. 12 were discussed in
the Notes on Chaps. XXXVI. and LIII.
This, like the first part of "The Soothsayer," is Par. 13.
obviously a reference to Schopenhauerian Pessimism.
These are supplementary to the discourse "Back- Pars. 14, 15.
world's-men." '^' '7-
We must be careful to separate this paragraph, Par. 18.
in sense, from the previous four paragraphs. Nietz-
sche is still dealing with Pessimism here; but it is
the pessimism of the hero—the man most susceptible
of all 10 des|)eratt' viewi; of life, owing to the obstacles
that are atrayed against him in a world where men of
his kind are very rare and are continually being
sacrificed. It was to save this man that Nietzsche
wrote. Heroism foiled, thwarted, and wrecked, hojiing
and fighting until the last, is at length overtaken by
despair, and renounces all struggle for sleep. This
is not the natural or constitutional pessimism which
proceeds from an unhealthy body — the dyspeptic's
lack of appetite ; it is rather the desperation of the
43^ APPENDIX.
netted lion that ultimately stops all movement, because
the more it moves the more involved it becomes.
Par. 20. " All that increases power is good, all that springs
from weakness is bad. The weak and ill-constituted
shall perish : first principle of our charity. And one
shall also help them thereto." Nietzsche partly
divined the kind of reception moral values of this
stamp would meet with at the hands of the effeminate
manhood of Europe. Here we see that he had
anticipated the most likely form their criticism would
take (see also the last two verses of par. 17).
Par. ai. The first ten verses, here, are reminiscent of "War
and Warriors" and of "The Flies in the Market-
place." Verses 11 and 12, however, are particularly
important. There is a strong argument in favour of
the sharp differentiation of castes and of races (and
even of sexes; see Note on Chap, XVIII.) running
alK through Nietf§CKe^ writings. But sharp differentia-
tion also implies antagonism in some form or other —
hence Nietzsche's fears for modern men. What
modern men desire above all, is peace and the
cessation of pain. But neither great races nor great
castes have ever been built up in this way. " Who
still wanteth to rule?" Zarathustra asks in the
" Prologue." " Who still wanteth to obey ? Both are
too burdensome." This is rapidly becoming every-
body's attitude to-day. The tame moral reading of
the face of nature, together with such democratic
interpretations of life as those suggested by Herbert
Spencer, are signs of a physiological condition which
is the reverse of that bounding and irresponsible
healthiness in which harder and more tragic values
rule.
Par. 24. This should be read in conjunction with " Child
and Marriage." In the fifth verse we shall recognise
NOTES. 437
our old friend "Marriage on the ten-years system,"
which George Meredith suggested some years ago.
This, however, must not be taken too literally. I
do not think Nietzsche's profoundest views on
marriage were ever intended to be given over to the
public at all, at least not for the present. They
appear in the biography by his sister, and although
their wisdom is unquestionable, the nature of the
reforms he suggests render it impossible for them to
become popular just now.
See Note on ''The Prologue." P»"- 2^. 27.
Nietzsche was not an iconoclast from predilection. Par. 28.
No bitterness or empty hate dictated his vitupera-
tions against existing values and against the dogmas of
his parents and forefathers. He knew too well what
these things meant to the millions who profess them,
to approach the task of uprooting them with levity
or even with haste. He saw what modern anarchists
and revolutionists do not see — namely, that man is in
danger of actual destruction when his customs and
values are broken. I need hardly point out, there-
fore, how deeply he was conscious of the responsibility
he threw upon our shoulders when he invited us to
reconsider our position. The lines in this paragraph
are evidence enough of his earnestness.
We meet with several puzzles here. Zarathustra Chapttr
calls himself the advocate of the circle (the Eternal LVII.
Recurrence of all things), and he calls this doctrine * ,
1 11 1 T 1 1 r y f Convalescent,
his abysmal thought. In the last verse of the first
paragraph, however, after hailing his deepest thought,
he cries : " Disgust, disgust, disgust ! " We know
Nietzsche's ideal man was that " world-approving,
exuberant, and vivacious creature, who has not only
learnt to compromise and arrange with that which
was and is. but wishes to have it again, as it was and
438 APPENDIX.
/J, for all eternity insatiably calling out da capo, not
only to himself, but to the whole piece and play"
(see Note on Chap. XLIL). But if one ask oneself
what the conditions to such an attitude are, one will
realise immediately how utterly different Nietzsche
was from his ideal. The man who insatiably cries
da capo to himself and to the whole of his mise-en-
schie, must be in a position to desire every incident
in his life to be repeated, not once, but again and
again eternally. Now, Nietzsche's life had been too
full of disappointments, illness, unsuccessful struggles,
and snubs, to allow of his thinking of the Eternal
Recurrence without loathing — hence probably the
words of the last verse.
In verses 15 and 16, we have Nietzsche declaring him-
self an evolutionist in the broadest sense — that is to
say, that he believes in the Development Hypothesis
as the description of the process by which species have
originated. Now, to understand his position correctly
we must show his relationship to the two greatest
of modern evolutionists — Darwin and Spencer. As
a philosopher, however, Nietzsche does not stand or
iaW by his objections to the Darwinian or Spencerian
cosmogony. He never laid claim to a very profound
knowledge of biology, and his criticism is far more
valuable as the attitude of a fresh mind than as that
of a specialist towards the question. Moreover, in
his objections many difficulties are raised which are
not settled by an appeal to either of the men above
mentioned. We have given Nietzsche's definition of
life in the Note on Chap. LVL, par. 10. Still, there
remains a hope that Darwin and Nietzsche may some
day become reconciled by a new description of the
processes by which varieties occur. The appearance
of varieties among animals and of " sporting plants "
NOTES. 439
in the vegetable kingdom, is still shrouded in
mystery, and the question whether this is not
precisely the ground on which Darwin and Nietzsche
will meet, is an interesting one. The former says
in his "Origin of Species," concerning the causes of
variability : " . . . there are two factors, namely, the
nature of the organism, and the nature of the con-
ditions. The former seems to be much the more im-
portanty* for nearly similar variations sometimes arise
under, as far as we can judge, dissimilar conditions ;
and on the other hand, dissimilar variations arise
under conditions which appear to be nearly uniform."
Nietzsche, recognising this same truth, would ascribe
practically all the importance to the "highest func-
tionaries in the organism, in which the life-will
app)ears as an active and formative principle," and
except in certain cases (where passive organisms
alone are concerned) would not give such a prominent
place to the influence of environment. Adaptation,
according to him, is merely a secondary activity, a
mere re-activity, and he is therefore quite opposed to
Spencer's definition : " Life is the continuous adjust-
ment of internal relations to external relations."
Again in the motive force behind animal and plant
life, Nietzsche disagrees with Darwin. He trans-
Jorms the " Struggle for Existence " — the passive and
involuntary condition — into the " Struggle for Fower^'
which is active and creative, and much more in
harmony with Darwin's own view, given above, con-
cerning the importance of the organism itself. The
change is one of such far-reaching importance that
we cannot dispose of it in a breath, as a mere play
upon words. "Much is reckoned higher than lile
Tbe italics are mine
440 APPENDIX.
itself by the living one." Nietzsche says that to
speak of the activity of life as a "struggle for
existence," is to state the case inadequately. He
warns us not to confound Malthus with nature. There
is something more than this struggle between the
organic beings on this earth ; want, which is supposed
to bring this struggle about, is not so common as is
supposed ; some other force must be operative. The
Will to Power is this force, "the instinct of self-
preservation is only one of the indirect and most
frequent results thereof." A certain lack of acumen
in psychological questions and the condition of affairs
in England at the time Darwin wrote, may both,
according to Nietzsche, have induced the renowned
naturalist to describe the forces of nature as he did
in his " Origin of Species."
In verses 28, 29, and 30 of the second portion of
this discourse we meet with a doctrine which, at first
sight, seems to be merely "/<? manoir a Penvirs"
indeed one English critic has actually said of Nietz-
sche, that "Thus Spake Zarathustra" is no more
than a compendium of modern views and maxims
turned upside down. Examining these heterodox
pronouncements a little more closely, however, we
may possibly perceive their truth. Regarding good
and evil as purely relative values, it stands to reason
that what may be bad or evil in a given man, relative
to a certain environment, may actually be good if
not highly virtuous in him relative to a certain other
environment. If this hypothetical man represent the
ascending Hne of life — that is to say, if he promise all
that which is highest in a Graeco-Roman sense, then
it is likely that he will be condemned as wicked if
introduced into the society of men representing the
opposite and descending line of life.
NOTES. 441
By depriving a man of his wickedness — more
particularly nowadays— therefore, one may unwittingly
be doing violence to the greatest in him. It may be
an outrage against his wholeness, just as the lopping-
off of a leg would be. Fortunately, the natural so-
called " wickedness " of higher men has in a certain
measure been able to resist this lopping process which
successive slave-moralities have practised ; but signs
are not wanting which show that the noblest wicked-
ness is fast vanishing from society — the wickedness
of courage and determination — and that Nietzsche
had good reasons for crying : " Ah, that [man's]
baddest is so very small! Ah, that his best is so
very small. What is good? To be brave is good!
It is the good war which halloweth every cause!"
(see also par. 5, " Higher Man ").
This is a final paean which Zarathustra sings to Chapter LX.
Eternity and the marriage ring of rings, the ring of The Seven
the Eternal Recurrence. ** **
In my opinion this part is Nietzsche's open avowal PART IV.
that all his philosophy, together with all his hopes,
enthusiastic outbursts, blasphemies, prolixities, and
obscurities, were merely so many gifts laid at the feet
of higher men. He had no desire to save the world.
What he wished to determine was: Who is to be
master of the world ? This is a very different thing.
He came to save higher men ; — to give them that
freedom by which, alone, they can develop and
reach their zenith (see Note on Chap. LIV., end). It
has been argued, and with considerable force, that
no such philosophy is required by higher men, that,
as a matter of tact, higher men, by virtue of their
constitutioos always, do stand Beyond Good and
442 APPENDIX.
Evil, and never allow anything to stand in the way
of their complete growth. Nietzsche, however, was
evidently not so confident about this. He would
probably have argued that we only see the successful
cases. Being a great man himself, he was well aware
of the dangers threatening greatness in our age. In
" Beyond Good and Evil " he writes : " There are
few pains so grievous as to have seen, divined, or
experienced how an exceptional man has missed
his way and deteriorated. . . ." He knew "from
his painfullest recollections on what wretched ob
stacles promising developments of the highest rank
have hitherto usually gone to pieces, broken
down, sunk, and become contemptible." Now in
Part IV. we shall find that his strongest temptation
to descend to the feeling of "pity" for his con-
temporaries, is the "cry for help" which he hears
from the lips of the higher men exposed to the
dreadful danger of their modern environment.
Chapter LXI. In the fourteenth verse of this discourse Nietzsche
The Honey defines the solemn duty he imposed upon himself:
Sacrifice. '^jecome what thou art." Surely the criticism which
has been directed against this maxim must all fall to
the ground when it is remembered, once and for all, that
Nietzsche's teaching was never intended to be other
than an esoteric one. " I am a law only for mine
own," he says emphatically, " I am not a law for all."
It is of the greatest importance to humanity that its
highest individuals should be allowed to attain to their
full development ; for, only by means of its heroes
can the human race be led forward step by step to
higher and yet higher levels. " Become what thou
art " applied to all, of course, becomes a vicious
maxim ; it is to be hoped, however, that we may learn
in time that the same action performed by a given
NOTES. 443
number of men, loses its identity precisely that
same number of times.— " Quod licet Jovi, non licet
bovi."
At the last eight verses many readers may be
tempted to laugh. In England we almost always
laugh when a man takes himself seriously at anything
save sport. And there is of course no reason why the
reader should not be hilarious.— A certain greatness
is requisite, both in order to be sublime and to have
reverence for the sublime. Nietzsche earnestly be-
lieved that the Zarathustra-kingdom— his dynasty of
a thousand years — would one day come ; if he had
not believed it so earnestly, if every artist in fact had
not believed so earnestly in his Hazar, whether of
ten, fifteen, a hundred, or a thousand years, we should
have lost all our higher men ; they would have become
pessimists, suicides, or merchants. If the minor poet
and philosopher has made us shy of the prophetic
seriousness which characterised an Isaiah or a Jeremiah,
it is surely our loss and the minor poet's gain.
We now meet with Zarathustra in extraordinary Chapter
circumstances. He is confronted with Schopenhauer L>^ I ^•
and tempted by the old Soothsayer to commit the sin ^^^^^^l^ "*
of pity. "I have come that I may seduce thee to
thy last sin ! " says the Soothsayer to 2^athustra. It
will be remembered that in Schopenhauer's ethics, pity
is elevated to the highest place among the virtues, and
very consistently too, seeing that the Weltanschauung
is a pessimistic one. Schopenhauer appeals to Nietz-
sche's deepest and strongest sentiment — his sympathy
for higher men. *' Why dost thou conceal thyseh ? "
he cries. "It is tfu higher man that calleth for thee!"
Zarathustra is almost overcome by the Soothsayer't
pleading, as he had been once already in the past;
but he resists hira step by step. At length he can
Talk with
the Kings.
444 APPENDIX.
withstand him no longer, and, on the plea that the
higher man is on his ground and therefore under his
protection, Zarathustra departs in search of him,
leaving Schopenhauer — a higher man in Nietzsche's
opinion — in the cave as a guest.
Chapter On his way Zarathustra meets two more higher men
L^III. of his time ; two kings cross his path. They are
above the average modem type; for their instincts
tell them what real ruling is, and they despise the
mockery which they have been taught to call " Reign-
ing." "We are not the first men," they say, "and have
nevertheless to stand for them : of this imposture have
we at last become weary and disgusted." It is the
kings who tell Zarathustra: "There is no sorer
misfortune in all human destiny than when tha
mighty of the earth are not also the first men. There
everything becometh false and distorted and mon-
strous." The kings are also asked by Zarathustra to
accept the shelter of his cave, whereupon he proceed*
on his way.
Chapter Among the higher men whom Zarathustra wishes \%
i^.^^Y' ^^^^' *^ ^^^ ^^ scientific specialist — the man who
honestly and scrupulously pursues his investigations,
as Darwin did, in one department of knowledge. " ]
love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh
to know in order that the Superman may hereafter
live. Thus seeketh he his own down-going." " The
spiritually conscientious one," he is called in this
discourse. Zarathustra steps on him unawares, and
the slave of science, bleeding from the violence he
has done to himself by his self-imposed task, speaks
proudly of his little sphere of knowledge — his little
hand's breadth of ground on Zarathustra's territory,
philosophy. "Where mine honesty ceaseth," says
the true scientific speciaHst, "there am I blind and
The Leech.
NOTES. 445
want also to be blind Where I want to know, how-
ever, there want I also to be honest— namely, severe,
rigorous, restricted, cruel, and inexorable." Zarathus-
tra greatly respecting this man, invites him too to the
cave, and then vanishes in answer to another cry for
help.
The Magician is of course an artist, and Nietzsche's Chapter LXV.
intimate knowledge of perhaps the greatest artist of The Magician
his age rendered the selection of Wagner, as the type
in this discourse, almost inevitable. Most readers
will be acquainted with the facts relating to Nietzsche's
and Wagner's friendship and ultimate separation. As
a boy and a youth Nietzsche had shown such a
remarkable gift for music that it had been a question
at one time whether he should not perhaps give up
everything else in order to develop this gift, but he
became a scholar notwithstanding, although he never
entirely gave up composing, and playing the piaDO.
While still in his teens, he became acquainted with
Wagner's music and grew passionately fond of it.
Long before he met Wagner he must have idealised
him in his mind to an extent which only a profoundly
artistic nature could have been capable of. Nietzsche
always had high ideals for humanity. If one were
asked whether, throughout his many changes, there
was yet one aim, one direction, and one hope to
which he held fast, one would be forced to reply in
the affirmative and declare that aim, direction, and hope
to have been " the elevation of the type man." Now,
when Nietzsche met Wagner he was actually casting
about for an incarnation of his dreams for the German
people, and we have only to remember his youth (he
was twenty-one when he was introduced to Wagner),
his love of Wagner's music, and the undoubted power
of the great musician's personality, in order to realise
446 APPENDIX.
how very uncritical his attitude must have been in the
first flood of his enthusiasm. Again, when the friend-
ship ripened, we cannot well imagine Nietzsche, the
younger man, being anything less than intoxicated by
his senior's attention and love, and we are therefore
not surprised to find him pressing Wagner forward as
the great Reformer and Saviour of mankind. "Wagner
in Bayreuth " (English Edition, 1909) gives us the best
proof of Nietzsche's infatuation, and although signs
are not wanting in this essay which show how clearly
and even cruelly he was sub-consciously "taking
stock" of his friend — even then, the work is a record
of what great love and admiration can do in the way
of endowing the object of one's affection with all
the qualities and ideals that a fertile imagination can
conceive.
When the blow came, it was therefore all the more
severe. Nietzsche at length realised that the friend
of his fancy and the real Richard Wagner — the com-
poser of Parsifal — were not one; the fact dawned
upon him slowly; disappointment upon disappoint-
ment, revelation after revelation, ultimately brought
it home to him, and though his best instincts were
naturally opposed to it at first, the revulsion of feeling
at last became too strong to be ignored, and Nietzsche
was plunged into the blackest despair. Years after
his break with Wagner, he wrote "The Case of
Wagner," and " Nietzsche contra Wagner," and these
works are with us to prove the sincerity and depth oi
his views on the man who was the greatest event
of his life.
The poem in this discourse is, of course, reminiscent
of Wagner's own poetical manner, and it must be
remembered that the whole was written subsequent
to Nietzsche's final break with his friend. The
NOTES. 447
dialogue between Zarathustra and the Magician reveals
pretty fully what it was that Nietzsche grew to loathe
so intensely in Wagner, — viz., his pronounced histrionic
tendencies, his dissembling powers, his inordinate
vanity, his equivocalness, his falseness. " It honoureth
thee," says Zarathustra, " that thou soughtest for great-
ness, but it betrayeth thee also. Thou art not
great.". The Magician is nevertheless sent as a guest
to Zarathustra's cave; for, in his heart, Zarathustra
believed until the end that the Magician was a higher
man broken by modern values.
Zarathustra now meets the last pope, and, in a Chapter
poetical form, we get Nietzsche's description of the LXVI.
course Judaism and Christianity pursued before they S^"^ "
reached their final break-up in Atheism, Agnosticism,
and the like. The God of a strong, warlike race—
the God of Israel — is a jealous, revengeful God. He
is a power that can be pictured and endured only by
a hardy and courageous race, a race rich enough to
sacrifice and to lose in sacrifice. The image of this
God degenerates with the people that appropriate it,
and gradually He becomes a God of love — " soft and
mellow," a lower middle-class deity, who is " pitiful."
He can no longer be a God who requires sacrifice,
for we ourselves are no longer rich enough for that.
The tables are therefore turned upon Him ; He must
sacrifice to us. His pity becomes so great that he
actually does sacrifice something to us — His only
begotten Son. Such a process carried to its logical
conclusions must ultimately end in His own destruc-
tion, and thus we find the pope declaring that God
was one day suffocated by His all-too-great pity.
What follows is clear enough. Zarathustra recognises
another higher man in the ex-pope and sends him
too as a guest to the cave.
44^ APPENDIX.
Chapter This discourse contains perhaps the boldest of
LXVll. Nietzsche's suggestions concerning Atheism, as well
The Ugliest ^^ ^^^^ extremely penetrating remarks upon the
sentiment of pity. Zarathustra comes across the
repulsive creature sitting on the wayside, and what
does he do ? He manifests the only correct feelings
that can be manifested in the presence of any great
misery — that is to say, shame, reverence, embarrass-
ment. Nietzsche detested the obtrusive and gushing
pity that goes up to misery without a blush either on
its cheek or in its heart — the pity which is only
another form of self-glorification. " Thank God that I
am not like thee ! " — only this self-glorifying sentiment
can lend a well-constituted man the impudence to
skow his pity for the cripple and the ill-constituted. In
the presence of the ugliest man Nietzsche blushes, —
he blushes for his race ; his own particular kind of
altruism — the altruism that might have prevented the
existence of this man — strikes him with all its force.
He will have the world otherwise. He will have a
world where one need not blush for one's fellows —
hence his appeal to us to love only our children's
land, the land undiscovered in the remotest sea.
Zarathustra calls the ugliest man the murderer of
God ! Certainly, this is one aspect of a certain kind
of Atheism — the Atheism of the man who reveres
beauty to such an extent that his own ugliness, which
outrages him, must be concealed from every eye lest
it should not be respected as Zarathustra respected it.
If there be a God, He too must be evaded. His pity
must be foiled. But God is ubiquitous and omniscient.
Therefore, for the really great ugly man. He must not
exist. " Their pity is it from which I flee away," he says
— that is to say : " it is from their want of reverence
and lack of shame in presence of my great misery 1"
NOTES. 449
The ugliest man despises himself; but Zarathustra
said in his Prologue : " I love the great despisers
because they are the great adorers, and arrows of
longing for the other shore." He therefore honours
the ugliest man : sees height in his self-contempt, and
invites him to join the other higher men in the cave.
In this discourse, we undoubtedly have the ideal Chapter
Buddhist, if not Gautama Buddha himself. Nietzsche LXVIII.
had the greatest respect for Buddhism, and almost ^^
wherever he refers to it in his works, it is in terms of
praise. He recognised that though Buddhism is un-
doubtedly a religion for decadents, its decadent values
emanate from the higher and not, as in Christianity,
from the lower grades of society. In Aphorism 20 of
"The Antichrist," he compares it exhaustively with
Christianity, and the result of his investigation is very
much in favour of the older religion. Still, he recog-
nised a most decided Buddhistic influence in Christ's
teaching, and the words in verses 29, 30, and 31 are
very reminiscent of his views in regard to the Christian
Saviour.
The figure of Christ has been introduced often
enough into fiction, and many scholars have under
taken to write His life according to their own lights,
but few perhaps have ever attempted to present Him
to us bereft of all those characteristics which a lack
of the sense of harmony has attached to His person
through the ages in which His doctrines have been
taught. Now Nietzsche disagreed entirely with
Renan's view, that Christ was "/<? grand maiire en
ironie" ) in Aphorism 31 of "The Antichrist," he says
that he (Nietzsche) always purged his picture of the
Humble Nazarene of all those bitter and spiteful out-
bursts which, in view of the struggle the first Christians
weot through, may very well have been added to the
2F
B«j?gar.
4SO APPENDIX.
original character by Apologists and Sectarians who,
at that time, could ill afford to consider nice psycho-
logical points, seeing that what they needed, above all,
was a wrangling and abusive deity. These two con-
flicting halves in the character of the Christ of the
Gospels, which no sound psychology can ever reconcile,
Nietzsche always kept distinct in his own mind ; he
could not credit the same man with sentiments some-
times so noble and at other times so vulgar, and in
presenting us with this new portrait of the Saviour,
purged of all impurities, Nietzsche rendered military
honours to a foe, which far exceed in worth all that
His most ardent disciples have ever claimed for Him.
In verse 26 we are vividly reminded of Herbert
Spencer's words : " ' Z^ mariage de convenance ' is
legalised prostitution."
Chapter Here we have a description of that courageous and
Th Sh d wayward spirit that literally haunts the footsteps of
every great thinker and every great leader ; sometimes
with the result that it loses all aims, all hopes, and all
trust in a definite goal. It is the case of the bravest
and most broad-minded men of to-day. These liter-
ally shadow the most daring movements in the science
and art of their generation ; they completely lose their
bearings and actually find themselves, in the end,
without a way, a goal, or a home. " On every surface
have I already sat ! ... I become thin, I am almost
equal to a shadow ! " At last, in despair, such men
do indeed cry out: "Nothing is true; all is permitted,"
and then they become mere wreckage. " Too much
hath become clear unto me : now nothing mattereth
to me any more. Nothing liveth any longer that I
love, — how should I still love myself? Have I still a
goal ? Where is my home ? " Zarathustra realises the
danger threatening such a man. " Thy danger is no;
NOTES. 45 J
small, thou free spirit and wanderer," he says. "Thou
hast had a bad day. See that a still worse evening
doth not overtake thee!" The danger Zarathustra
refers to is precisely this, that even a prison may seem
a blessing to such a man. At least the bars keep him
in a place of rest ; a place of confinement, at its worst,
is real. "Beware lest in the end a narrow faith
capture thee," says Zarathustra, " for now everything
that is narrow and fixed seduceth and tempteth thee."
At the noon of life Nietzsche said he entered the Chapter
world ; with him man came of age. We are now LXX.
held responsible for our actions ; our old guardians, Noon-ti e.
the gods and demigods of our youth, the superstitions
and fears of our childhood, withdraw; the field lies
open before us ; we lived through our morning with but
one master— chance— ; let us see to it that we make
our afternoon our own (see Note XLIX., Part III.).
Here I think I may claim that my contention in Chapter
regard to the purpose and aim of the whole of LXXI.
Nietzsche's philosophy (as stated at the beginning of '^^* ^'"""^'
my Notes on Part IV.) is completely upheld. He
fought for "all who do not want to live, unless
they learn again to hope — unless they learn [from him]
the ^^fl/ hope : " Zarathustra's address to his guests
shows clearly enough how he wished to help them :
•• / do not treat my warriors indulgently,'' he says :
"how then could ye be fit for my warfare?" He
rebukes and spurns them, no word of love comes from
his lips. Elsewhere he says a man should be a hard
bed to his friend, thus alone can he be of use to him.
Nietzsche would be a hard bed to higher men. He
would make them harder; for, in order to be a
law unto himself, man must possess the requisite
hardness. "I wait for higher ones, stronger ones,
more triumphant ones, merrier ones, for such as are
452
APPENDIX.
Chapter
LXXII.
The Supper.
Chapter
LXXIII.
The Higher
Man.
Par. I.
Par. 3.
Par. 4.
built squarely in body and soul." He says in par.
6 of " Higher Man " : —
"Ye higher men, think ye that I am here to put
right what ye have put wrong? Or that I wished
henceforth to make snugger couches for you sufferers ?
Or show you restless, miswandering, misclimbing
ones new and easier footpaths ? "
" Nay ! Nay ! Three times nay ! Always more,
always better ones of your type shall succumb— for
ye shall always have it worse and harder."
In the first seven verses of this discourse, I cannot
help seeing a gentle allusion to Schopenhauer's habits
as a bon-vivant. For a pessimist, be it remembered,
Schopenhauer led quite an extraordinary life. He
ate well, loved well, played the flute well, and I
believe he smoked the best cigars. What follows
is clear enough.
Nietzsche admits, here, that at one time he had
thought of appealing to the people, to the crowd in
the market-place, but that he had ultimately to
abandon the task. He bids higher men depart from
the market-place.
Here we are told quite plainly what class of men
actually owe all their impulses and desires to the
instinct of self-preservation. The struggle for existence
is indeed the only spur in the case of such people.
To them it matters not in what shs^e or condition
man be preserved, provided only he survive. The
transcendental maxim that '' Life per se is precious "
is the ruling maxim here.
In the Note on Chap. LVII. (end) I speak of
Nietzsche's elevation of the virtue, Courage, to the
highest place among the virtues. Here he tells
higher men the class of courage he expects from
them.
NOTES. 453
These have already been referred to in the Notes Pars. 5, 6.
on Chaps. LVII. (end) and LXXI.
I suggest that the last verse in this paragraph Par. 7.
strongly confirms the view that Nietzsche's teacliing
was always meant by him to be esoteric and for
higher man alone.
In the last verse, here, another shaft of light is Par. 9.
thrown upon the Immaculate Perception or so-called
" pure objectivity " of the scientific mind. ** Freedom
from fever is still far from being knowledge." Where
a man's emotions cease to accompany him in his
investigations, he is not necessarily nearer the truth.
Says Spencer, in the Preface to his Autobiography : —
" In the genesis of a system of thought, the emotional
nature is a large factor: perhaps as large a factor as
the intellectual nature "(see pp. 134, 141 of Vol. I.,
•' Thoughts out of Season," in this edition).
When we approach Nietzsche's philosophy we must Pars. 10, 11
be prepared to be independent thinkers ; in fact, the
greatest virtue of his works is perhaps the subtlety
with which they impose the obligation upon one of
thinking alone, of scoring off one's own bat, and of
shifting intellectually for oneself.
"I am a railing alongside the torrent ; whoever is par. 13.
able to grasp me, may grasp me ! Your crutch,
however, I am not." These two paragraphs are an
exhortation to higher men to become independent.
Here Nietzsche perhaps exaggerates the import- Par. 15.
ance of heredity. As, however, the question is by no
means one on which we are all agreed, what he says
is not without value.
A very important principle in Nietzsche's philo-
sophy is enunciated in the first verse of this para-
graph. "The higher its type, always the seldomer
doth a thing succeed " (see p. 82 of " Beyond Good
454
APPENDIX.
Pars. 1 6, 17,
18, 19, 20.
Chapter
LXXIV.
The Song of
Melancholy.
Chapter
LXXV.
Scieoce.
and Evil," in this edition). Those who, like some
political economists, talk in a business-like way about
the terrific waste of human life and energy, deliber-
ately overlook the fact that the waste most to be
deplored usually occurs among higher individuals.
Economy was never precisely one of nature's leading
principles. All this sentimental wailing over the
larger proportion of failures than successes in human
life, does not seem to take into account the fact that
it is the rarest thing on earth for a highly organised
being to attain to the fullest development and activity
of all its functions, simply because it is so highly
organised. The blind Will to Power in nature there-
fore stands in urgent need of direction by man.
These paragraphs deal with Nietzsche's protest
against the democratic seriousness {Pobelernst) of
modern times. "All good things laugh," he says,
and his final command to the higher men is, " learn^
I pray you — to laugh." All that \sgood, in Nietzsche's
sense, is cheerful. To be able to crack a joke about
one's deepest feelings is the greatest test of their value.
The man who does not laugh, like the man who does
not make faces, is already a buffoon at heart.
" What hath hitherto been the greatest sin here on
earth ? Was it not the word of him who said : ' Woe
unto them that laugh now ! ' Did he himself find
no cause for laughter on the earth ? Then he sought
badly. A child even findeth cause for it."
After his address to the higher men, Zarathustra
goes out into the open to recover himself. Meanwhile
the magician (Wagner), seizing the opportunity in
order to draw them all into his net once more, sings
the Song of Melancholy. The only one to resist
the *' melancholy voluptuousness " of his art, is the
spiritually conscientious one — the scientific specialist
NOTES. 455
of whom we read in the discourse entitled "The
Leech." He takes the harp from the magician and
cries for air, while reproving the musician in the
style of " The Case of Wagner." When the magician
retaliates by saying that the spiritually conscientious
one could have understood little of his song, the
latter replies: "Thou praisest me in that thou
sei)aratest me from thyself." The speech of the
scientific man to his fellow higher men is well worth
studying. By means of it, Nietzsche pays a high
tribute to the honesty of the true specialist, while,
in representing him as the only one who can resist
the demoniacal influence of the magician's music,
he elevates him at a stroke, above all those present.
Zarathustra and the spiritually conscientious one
join issue at the end on the question of the proper
place of " fear " in man's history, and Nietzsche
avails himself of the opportunity in order to restate
his views concerning the relation of courage to
humanity. It is precisely because courage has played
the most important part in our development that he
would not see it vanish from among our virtues to-
day. "... courage seemeth to me the entire primi-
tive history of man." Chapter
This tells its own tale. LXXVI.
In this discourse, Nietzsche wishes to give his Among
followers a warning. He thinks he has so far helped Daughters o'
them that they have become convalescent, that new ^ « ^^e .
desires are awakened in them and that new hopes are ^^*J^j-
in their arms and legs. But he mistakes the nature ^j^^
of the change. True, he has helped them, he has Awakening,
given them back what they most need, t.e.^ belief in
believing — the confidence in having confidence in
something, but how do they use it? This belief in
faith, if one can so express it without seeming lauto-
456
APPENDIX.
Chapter
LXXVII[.
The Ass-
FestivaL
logical, has certainly been restored to them, and in
the first flood of their enthusiasm they use it by
bowing down and worshipping an ass ! When writing
this passage, Nietzsche was obviously thinking of the
accusations which were levelled at the early Christians
by their pagan contemporaries. It is well known that
they were supposed not only to be eaters of human
flesh but also ass-worshippers, and among the Roman
graffiti, the most famous is the one found on the
Palatino, showing a man worshipping a cross on
which is suspended a figure with the head of an ass
(see Minucius Felix, " Octavius," IX. ; Tacitus, " His-
toriae," v. 3; TertuUian, "Apologia," &c.). Nietzsche's
obvious moral, however, is that great scientists and
thinkers, once they have reached the wall encircling
scepticism and have thereby learned to recover their
confidence in the act of believing, as such, usually
manifest the change in their outlook by falling victims
to the narrowest and most superstitious of creeds.
So much for the introduction of the ass as an object
of worship.
Now, with regard to the actual service and Ass-
Festival, no reader who happens to be acquainted
with the religious history of the Middle Ages will fail
to see the allusion here to the asinaria festa which
were by no means uncommon in France, Germany,
and elsewhere in Europe during the thirteenth, four-
teenth, and fifteenth centuries.
At length, in the middle of their feast, Zarathustra
bursts in upon them and rebukes them soundly. But
he does not do so long; in the Ass-Festival, it
suddenly occurs to him, that he is concerned with a
ceremony that may not be without its purpose, as
something foolish but necessary — a recreation for
wise men. He is therefore highly pleased that the
NOTES. 457
higher men have all blossomed forth ; they therefore
require new festivals, — "A little valiant nonsense,
some divine service and ass-festival, some old joyful
Zarathustra fool, some blusterer to blow their souls
bright."
He tells them not to forget that night and the
ass-festival, for "such things only the convalescent
devise! And should ye celebrate it again," he
concludes, " do it from love to yourselves, do it also
from love to me ! And in remembrance of mtl''
It were the height of presumption to attempt to fix Chapter
any particular interpretation of my own to the words LXXIX.
of this song. With what has gone before, the reader, '^^^ D-^unken
while reading it as poetry, should be able to seek and °^*
find his own meaning in it. The doctrine of the
,J£ternal Recurrence appears for the last time here, m
an art-form. Nietzsche lays stress upon the fact that
all happiness, all delight, longs for repetitions, and
just as a child cries " Again ! Again ! " to the adult
who happens to be amusing him ; so the man who
sees a meaning, and a joyful meaning, in existence
must akn rry " Agam t » y^^ y?^ " Again ! " tO f^H Hiq H^l
In this discourse, Nietzsche disassociates himself Chapter
finally from the higher men, and by the symbol of the LXXX.
lion, wishes to convey to us that he has won over and ^ *^'
mastered the best and the most terrible in nature. That
great power and tenderness are kin, was already his
belief in 1875— eight years before he wrote this speech,
and when the birds and the lion come to him, it is
because he is the embodiment of the two qualities.
All that is terrible and great in nature, the higher men
are not yet prepared for; for they retreat horror-
stricken into the cave when the lion springs at them ;
but Zarathustra makes not a move towards them. He
was tempted to them on the previous day, he says,
a o
458 APPENDIX.
but " That hath had its time ! My suffering and my
fellow suffering, — what matter about them ! Do I
then strive after happiness ? I strive after my work !
Well! the lion hath come, my children are nigh.
Zarathustra hath grown ripe. My day beginneth :
arise now, arise^ thou great noonday I "
* ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The above I know to be open to much criticism.
I shall be grateful to all those who will be kind
enough to show me where and how I have gone
wrong ; but I should like to point out that, as they
stand, I have not given to these Notes by any means
their final form.
ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI. ^ ,
London, February 1909.
THE WORKS OF
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.
First Complete and Authorised English Translation, in i8 Volumes.
Edited by Dr OSCAR LEVY.
I. THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY. Translated by
William A. Hai-ssmann, B.A., Ph.D., with Biographical Intro*
duction by the Author's .Sister, Portrait .-ind Facsimile.
[SectMd Editum.
II. EARLY GREEK PHILOSOPHY AND OTHER
ESSAYS. Translated by M. A. MCgc.k, Ph.D. Crown 8vo.
III. THE FUTURE OF OUR EDUCATIONAL
INSTITUTIONS. Translated by J. M. Kknnruv.
{Second Edition.
IV. THOUGHTS OUT OF SEASON, Vol. I. Trans-
lated by A. M. Luixnici, with Editorial Note. \T hi rd Edition.
V. THOUGHTS OUT OF SEASON, Vol. II. Tran.s-
lated, with Introduction, by Adkian Collins, M.A.
{Second Edition.
VI. HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN, Vol. I. Translated
by Hrlen ZiMMBKN, with Introduction by J. M. Khnnkdv.
t Third Edition,
VII. HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN, Vol. II. Translated,
with Introduction, by Paul V. Cohn, B.A.
VIII. THE CASE OF WAGNER : We PhUoloeists, 8tc.
Translated by A. M. Ludovicl Crown 8vo. ( Third Edition.
IX. THE DAWN OF DAY. Translated, with Intro-
duction, by J. M. Kbn.nbdy.
X- THE JOYFUL WISDOM. Tran.slated, with Intro-
duction, by Thomas Co.mmon. [Second Edition.
XI. THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. Revised Trans-
lation by T. Common, with Introduction by Mrs Fokrstbr-
NimsCHB, and CommenUry by A. M. Ludovici.
I Third Edition.
XII. BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL. Translated by Helen
ZiMMKK.N, with Introduction by T. Common. [Fourth Edition.
XIII. THE GENEALOGY OF MORALS. Translated
by HoKACK B. Samlkl. .M.A. [Second Edition.
XIV. THE WILL TO POWER, Vol. I. Tran.slated, with
Introduction, by A. M. Ludovici. [Third Edition.
XV. THE WILL TO POWER, Vol. II. Translated, with
Introduction, by A. M. Luik)VIci. [Second Edition.
XVI. THE TWILIGHT OF IDOLS, THE ANTI-
CHRIST, &c. Translated by A. M. Ludovicl [Second Edition.
XVII. ECCE HOMO AND POETRY. Translated by A. M.
Ludovicl Crown 8vo.
XVIII. INDEX TO WORKS, by Robert Guppy ; and
Vocabulary of all Foreign Words and Phrases, by Paul V. Cohn ;
ravfaced by an Euay on the Nietzsche Movement in England, by
Dr OscAK Lk\-v. 4SO pp. Crown 8vo.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, Publishers, New York.
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