Skip to main content

Full text of "The complete works of Friedrich Nietzsche : the first complete and authorized English translation"

See other formats


This book belongs to 



Toronto 5, Canada 




Digitized by the Internet Arciiive 

in 2006 with funding from 

IVIicrosoft Corporation 




The First Complete and Authorised English Translation 










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 



c// BOOK^ FOR ^LL ^^HJ) 






X 6 q if 0^ 

Printeti at Thh Daki«n Press, Edinburgh 


Introduction by Mrs Forster-Nietzsche 





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 



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 - 






XXIII.— The Child with the Mirror - 

• 95 

XXIV.-In the Happy Isles - 


XXV.— The Pitifiil - - - . 


XXVI.— The Priests . - - . 

. 105 

XXVI I.-The Virtuous - . - . 

. 109 

XXVIII.— The Rabble - - - . 

• "3 

XXIX.— The Tarantulas 

. 116 

XXX.— The Famous Wise Ones 


XXXI.— The Night-Song 


XXXI I.-The Dance-Song 

. 126 

XXXIII.— The Grave-Song 

• 130 

XXXIV.— Self-Surpassing 

• 134 

XXXV.— The Sublime Ones - 


XXXVI.-The Land of Culture - 

. 142 

XXXVII.— Immaculate Perception 


XXXVIII.-Scholars . . . . 


XXXIX.— Poets 


XL.— Great Events . - . . 


XL I. -The Soothsayer 


XLI I.— Redemption . - - . 


XLIII.— Manly Prudence 


XLIV.— The Stillest Hour 

• '75 



Zarathustra's Discourses— CV?«//>i«^//. 


-The Wanderer - 

. .83 


—The Vision and the Enigma 

- 187 


-Involuntary Bliss 

- '93 


-Before Sunrise 

- 198 


-The Bedwarfing Virtue - 



—On the Olive-Mount 

- 209 


—On Passing-by - 

- 213 


-The Apostates - 

- 217 


—The Return Home 

- 223 


-The Three Evil Things - 

- 227 


-The Spirit of Gravity 

- 234 


-Old and New Tables - 

- 239 


—The Convalescent 

- 263 


—The Great Longing 

- 271 


—The Second Dance- Song 

- 275 


-The Seven Seals • 

- 280 


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 


• 336 

LXXI.-The Greeting - 

■ 340 


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 




Notes on "Thus Spake Zarathustra" by 

Anthony M. Ludovici- - * • 405 


By Mrs FOrster-Nietzsche. 


" 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, 


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 

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 


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 


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 


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 healt hiness. _ 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 


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 


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 


' 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." 

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- 

" 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 


" 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 


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 

With the exception of the ten days occupied in 


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, 


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 


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 


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 


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: 


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, 


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 


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 


Nietzsche Archives, 

Weimar, December 1905. 






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 ! 


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. 


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 

The saint answered : " I make hymns and sing 


them ; and in making hymns I laugh and weep 
and mumble : thus do I praise God. 

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

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


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; thejgim e shall man be to 
the Superman : a lauglRng-stock, a thing of shame. 


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

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

Lo, I teach you the Superman ! 

The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let 
your will say : The Superma n 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 


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 

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 

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


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

Where is the 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. 

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^ 

Jth e^ Superman — a rope over an abyss. 
^k A da ngerous crossing, a dangerousw ayfaring. a _ 
dangerous^Oukiii^-back. a dangero us ^ embling 
and h alting . 

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 

I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond 
the stars for going down and being sacrifices, but 


sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth of 
the Superman may hereafter arrive. 

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

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. 


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 


proud ? Culture, they call it ; it distinguisheth 
them from the goatherds. 

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

I will speak unto them of the most contemptible 
thing : that, however, is the last man ! " 
" And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people : 

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

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

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

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

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

"What is love? What is creation? What is 
longing? What is a star?" — so asketh the last 
man and blinketh. 

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

"We have discovered happiness" — say the last 
men, and blink thereby. 


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

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 happ iness," — say the last 
men, and blink thereby. — 

And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra, 
which is also called " The Prologue " : for at this 
point the shouting and mirth of the multitude 


interrupted him. " Give us this last man, O 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 

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." 


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 


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 


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. 


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 

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 ! 


I carry thee to the place where I shall bury thee 
with mine own hands. 


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 

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 


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 ! " — 


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 


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. 


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 ! 


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 ? 


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. 




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 


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 

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


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

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

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

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

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 

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



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 

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

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 ? 



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Thus pondering, and cradled by forty thoughts, 
it overtaketh me all at once — sleep, the 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 

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 

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

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

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

Now know I well what people sought formerly 
above all else when they sought teachers of virtue. 


Good sleep they sought for themselves, and poppy- 
head virtues to promote it ! 

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

Even at present, to be sure, there are some like 
this preacher of virtue, and not always so 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. 


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 


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 

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 


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 


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 

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. 


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 

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

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

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


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

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

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

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


An instrument of thy body is also thy little 
sagacity, my brother, which thou callest " spirit " — 
a little instrument and plaything of thy big 

" Ego," sayest thou, and art proud of that word. 
But the greatcL^hing-— in which thou art unwilling 
to beTieve— is thy body wit h its big sagacit y ; 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, a n unkn own sage — it is 
called Self; it dwelleth in thy"t5Udy, If is thy 
[ 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 


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 

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. 



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 

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 

Once hadst thou passions and calledst them evil. 


But now hast thou only thy virtues : they grew out 
of thy passions. 

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

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

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

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

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. 


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 h r s urpassed i and 
therefore shalt thou love thy virtues, — for thou wilt 
succumb by them. — 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


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

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

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

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

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

It is not enough that ye should reconcile with 
him whom ye slay. Let your sorrow be love 


to the Superman : thus will ye justify your own 
survival ! 

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

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

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

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

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

The streak of chalk bewitcheth the hen ; the 
stroke. he struck bewitched his weak reason. 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 


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 

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

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


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

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. 


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 

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 


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 

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- 

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 

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- 


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. 


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. 


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 ! 


How I hate him who flieth ! How tired I am on 
the height ! " 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thy wild dogs want liberty ; they bark for joy 


in their cellar when thy spirit endeavoureth to 
open all prison doors. 

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

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 

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

" Spirit is also voluptuousness," — said they. Then 


broke the wings of their spirit ; and now it creepeth 
about, and defileth where it gnaweth. 

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

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

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


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

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

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

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

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

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

They would fain be dead, and we should approve 


of their wish ! Let us beware of awakening those 
dead ones, and of damaging those living coffins ! 

They meet an invalid, or an old man, or a corpse 
— and immediately they say : " Life is refuted ! " 

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

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

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

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

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

And let this be the teaching of your virtue: 
"Thou shalt slay thyself! Thou shalt steal away 
from thyself!"— 

" Lust is sin," — so say some who preach death — 
* let us go apart and beget no children ! " 

"Giving birth is troublesome," — say others — 
"why still give birth? One beareth only the 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 


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- 

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. 


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 


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 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They call you heartless : but your heart is true, 
and I love the bashfulness of your goodwill. Ye 


are ashamed of your flow, and others are ashamed 
of their ebb. 

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

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

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

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

Resistance — that is the distinction of the slave. 
Let your distinction be obedience. Let your 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. 



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 monst ers. 

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 g ood 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 ! 


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 


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 


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. 


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. 


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 

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

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

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

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

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

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


Away from the market-place and from fame 
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: 


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 

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

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 

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

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

Sawest thou not how often they became dumb 


when thou approachedst them, and how their energy 
left them like the smoke of an extinguishing fire ? 

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

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. 


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. 


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- 

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. 



"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 

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be a 


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

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

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

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

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. 


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

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

Much that passed for good with one people was 


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

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

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

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

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

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

" Always shalt thou be the foremost and 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. 


" 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 

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 

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

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

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

Verily, the crafty ego, the loveless one, that 


seeketh its advantage in the advantage of many — 
it is not the origin of the herd, but its ruin. 

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

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

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

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

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

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


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 


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. 


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. 


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


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

The voice of the herd will still echo in thee. 
And when thou sayest, " I have no longer a 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 

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 


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

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 


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 

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 


despisest thou thyself, as only the loving ones 

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. 


" 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 


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 

In your love be your honour! Little doth 
woman understand otherwise about honour. But 


let this be your honour : always to love more than 
ye are loved, and never be the second. 

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

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

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

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." 


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

" Thou goest to women ? Do not forget thy 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


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 

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. 


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 

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 


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. 


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

A higher body shalt thou create, a first 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 

This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero, 


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. 



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

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 

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 


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 

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 


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. 


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. 



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 ; 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 


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 



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And once again shall ye have become friends 


unto me, and children of one hope : then will I be 
with you for the third time, to celebrate the great 
noontide with you. 

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

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. 



** — and only when ye have all 
denied me, will I return unto 

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). 


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 


disfigured the likeness of my doctrine, so that my 
dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I gave 

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 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 

Yea, I have drawn the conclusion ; now, however, 
doth it draw me. — 

God is a conjecture : but who could drink all the 
bitterness of this conjecture without dying ? Shall 
his faith be taken from the creating one, and from 
the eagle his flights into eagle-heights ? 


God is a thought— it maketh all the straight 
crooked, and all that standeth reel. What ? Time 
would be gone, and all the perishable would be but 
a lie? 

To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human 
limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily, 
the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such 
a thing. 

Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that 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 

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. 


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 — 

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. 



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 

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 

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. 


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 

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. 


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 


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 

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. 


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- 


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 


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 


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. 




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 

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 ; 


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 


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 

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 


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' 



Life is a well of delight ; but where the rabble 
also dri nk, there all f^ount ams ar e poisoned . 

To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but 
I hate to see the grinning mouths and the thirst 
of the iin dfan . _ 

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- 

And many a one who hath come along as a 
destroyer, and as a hailstorm to all cornfields, 
wanted merely to put his foot into the jaws of 
the rabble, and thus stop their throat. 

And it is not the mouthful which hath most 


choked me, to know that life itself requireth enmity 
and death and torture-crosses : — 

But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my 
question : What ? is the rabble also necessary for 

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 

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 


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 

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 


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. 


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. 


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 

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 

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 


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 w hom the impulse t o punish is powgrfiill " 

ThejTa re people of bad race and lineage ; out 
of their countenances peer the haT ig i iiaii an d the 

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 

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." 


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 

,and all names of values: weapons shall the y 

be, and sounding signs, that life must again and 


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. — 


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. 


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 

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- 

But he who is hated by the people, as the wolf 
by the dogs — is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, 
the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods. 


To hunt him out of his lair — that was always 
called "sense of right" by the people: on him do 
they still hound their sharpest- toothed dogs. 

" For there the truth is, where the people are ! 
Woe, woe to 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. 


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 

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 


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 

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, 


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. 


'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. 


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 

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. 


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. 


One evening went Zarathustra and his disciples 
through the forest ; and when he sought for a well, 
lo, he lighted upon a green meadow peacefully 
surrounded with trees and bushes, where maidens 
were dancing together. As soon as the maidens 


recognised Zarathustra, they ceased dancing ; Zara- 
thustra, however, approached them with friendly 
mein and spake these words : 
Cease not you r dancin g, 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 

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. 


But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle ; 
derisively didst thou laugh when I called thee 

" 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 

And when once Life asked me : " Who is she 


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 

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 


Evening hath come on : forgive me that evening 
hath come on ! " 

Thus sang Zarathustra. 


" 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 


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- 

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." 


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 

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 

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 


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 

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 

In thee still liveth also the unrealisedness of 
my youth ; and as life and youth sittest thou here 
hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves. 

Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all 


graves : Hail to thee, my Will ! And only where 
there are graves are there resurrections. — 

Thus sang Zarathustra. 


" 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 

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 

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 

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 


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 

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 


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 


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 

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 t o Life, but— so teach I thee— Will 

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 

Verily, I say unto you: go od and evil which 
would be everlast ing— it doth not exist !^ Of its 
own acCordTnu st^Ttever surpass itself anew. 

With your values and formulae of good and evil, 


ye exercise power, ye valuing ones : and that is 
your secret love, and the sparkling, trembling, and 
overflowing of your souls. 

But a stronger power groweth out of your values, 
and a new surpassing: by it breaketh egg and 

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 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


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 : 


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 

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 

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. 


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 

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 

He hath subdued monsters, he hath solved 
enigmas. But he should also redeem his monsters 
and enigmas ; into heavenly children should he 
transform them. 

As yet hath his knowledge not learned to smile, 
and to be without jealousy ; as yet hath his gushing 
passion not become calm in beauty. 

Verily, not in satiety shall his longing cease and 
disappear, but in beauty ! Gracefulness belongeth 
to the munificence of the magnanimous. 

His arm across his head : thus should the hero 
repose ; thus should he also surmount his repose. 

But precisely to the hero is beauty the hardest 


thing of all. Unattainable is beauty by all ardent 

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 

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. 



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. 


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 


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. 


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. 


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 

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 

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 


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- 

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 


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. 


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 

And this meaneth to me knowledge : all that is 
deep shall ascend — to my height ! — 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 



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 


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 

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 


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 

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 

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. 


"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 ? 


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 

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 


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 


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 

Certainly, one findeth pearls in them : thereby 
they are the more like hard molluscs. And instead 
of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime. 

They have learned from the sea also its vanity : 
IS not the sea the peacock of peacocks ? 

Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it 


spread out its tail ; never doth it tire of its lace-fan 
of silver and silk. 

Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh 
to the sand with its soul, nigher still to the thicket, 
nighest, however, to the swamp. 

What 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. 


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- 


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 

And this is the account of Zarathustra's inter- 
view with the fire-dog : 


The earth, said he, hath a skin ; and this skin 
hath diseases. One of these diseases, for example, 
is called " man." 

And another of these diseases is called " the fire- 
dog": 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 

" 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. 


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. 




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 

When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer 
endure to listen to me. Abashed did he draw in 
his tail, said " bow-wow ! " in a cowed voice, and 
crept down into his cave. — 

Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however, 
hardly listened to him : so great was their eagerness 


to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the 
flying man. 

" What am I to think of it ! " said Zarathustra. 
** Am I indeed a ghost ? 

But it may have been my shadow. Ye have 
surely heard 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 

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. 


" — 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. 


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 

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 


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 

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. 



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 

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 ? 


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 

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, 


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. — 


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 


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 

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 


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. 


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 

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. I mpotent tow ards 
what hath b een 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 ? 


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," 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 

" Morally are things ordered according to justice 
and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from 


the flux of things and from the 'existence' of 
penalty ? " Thus did madness preach. 

" Can there be deliverance when there 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? 


— 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? " — 


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 

Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart's double 


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 

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 


tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded, 
there there gro weth~up 'something better t h^ 

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 

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 


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 


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. 


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 

Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me 
my stillest hour: that is the name of my terrible 

And thus did it happen — for everything must I 


tell you, that your heart may not harden against 
the suddenly departing one ! 

Do ye know the terror of him who falleth 
asleep ? — 

To the very toes he is terrified, because the 
ground giveth way under him, and the dream 

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 


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 

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. 


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 


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. 




**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). 


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 


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 : 

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 


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. 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Love IS the danger of the lonesomest one, love to 
anything, if it only live / Laughable, verily, is my 
folly and my modesty in love ! — 

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


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, 


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 

" 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 

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. — 


" 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 

"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 

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 

" Observe," continued I, " This Moment I From 


the gateway, This Moment, there runneth a long 
eternal lane backwards : behind us lieth an eternity. 

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

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

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

For whatever can run its course of all things, also 
in this long lane outward — must it once more run ! — 

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

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

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

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

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


— So that it excited my commiseration. 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. — 


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. 


With such enigmas and bitterness in his heart 
did Zarathustra sail o'er the sea. When, however, 


he was four day-journeys from the Happy Isles 
and from his friends, then had he surmounted all 
his pain — : triumphantly and with firm foot did he 
again accept his fate. And then talked Zarathustra 
in this wise to his exulting conscience : 

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

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

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 

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 


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 


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 


about with me ! As yet have I not been strong 
enough for my final lion-wantonness and play- 

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 

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 ! 


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." 


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. 


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 

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 


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 

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 ! 


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 " — 

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

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

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

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

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

But thou blushest ? Have I spoken unspeakable 


things? Have I abused, when I meant to bless 

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. 



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 


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. 


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 


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 


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 

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- 

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


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

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

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

That, however, is cowardice, though it be called 
" virtue."— 

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

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. — 


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 


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 " — 


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. 


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. 


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 



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

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 

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- 

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

— Like it to stifle one's sun, and one's inflexible 
solar will : verily, this art and this winter-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 


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 


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 

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 

Thus sang Zarathustra, 


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. 


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 

There is here also much piety, and much faithful 


spittle-licking and spittle-backing, before the God 
of Hosts. 

" From on high," drippeth the star, and the 
gracious spittle ; for the high, longeth every 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, 


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 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But thy fools'-word injureth me, even when thou 


art right ! And even if Zarathustra's word were a 
hundred times justified, thou wouldst ever — do 
wrong with my word ! 

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

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

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

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

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. 


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- 


fortable : — they declare it : " We have again become 

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 

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. 


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- 


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 


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- 


watchmen and light- scarers, and tooted thereupon 
sorrowfully on their horns : so did it happen yester- 
night at the garden-wall. 

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

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

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

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

They did not " begloom " themselves to death — 
that do people fabricate ! On the contrary, they — 
laughed themselves to death once on a time ! 

That took place when the ungodliest utterance 
came from a God himself— the utterance : " There 
is but one God ! Thou shalt have no other Gods 
before me ! " — 

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

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

He that hath an ear let him hear.— 

Thus talked Zarathustra in the city he loved, 
which is surnamed "The Pied Cow." For from 
here he had but two days to travel to reach once 
more his cave and his animals ; his soul, however, 


rejoiced unceasingly on account of the nighness of 
his return home. 


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. 


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- 

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. 


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 


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 


" 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 

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. 

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


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

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

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

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 


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. 

Voluptuou sness, 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. 


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. 


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 

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 

^ Passion for^ ^BQ^vgL- t)ut who would call it passion, 
when the height longeth to stoo p fnr p^"^**«-' 
Verily, nothing si ck nr di^^aaed is there in such 
longing an d descen ding ! 

' 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 

And then it happened also, — and verily, it 
happened for the first time ! — that his word blessed 


selfishness^ the wholesome, healthy selfishness, that 
springeth from the powerful soul : — 

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

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

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

Away from itself doth it banish everything 
cowardly; it saith : " Bad— />^^/ 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 


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. 




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 

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

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. — 



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 

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. 



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 

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

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

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

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

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

Man is difficult to discover, and unto himself most 


difficult of all ; often lieth the spirit concerning the 
soul. So causeth the spirit of gravity. 

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

Verily, neither do I like those who call 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. 


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 

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 : 


— 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. 


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 


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 

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 


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 ? — 


There was it also where I picked up from the 
path the word *' Superm? *"," a"'^ ^^^^ "^^" '^'^ sr^mp, 
thin£_that mustlbe su rpassed. 
" -—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 


night, did I spread out laughter like a gay-coloured 

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 ? — 


Thus demandeth my great love to the remotest 
ones : be not considerate of thy neighbour I Man is 
something t hat must be surpass ed. 

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 ! — 


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 

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 


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


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 


bloweth ! " — Thus preach, my brethren, through all 
the streets ! 


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 ^nl y illusio n and 
not knowledge I ~ "" 


** 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 ! 



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 ! " 


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. 


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 


"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 
childish ness in the old b ooks 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 ! 


" 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 ! 


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 — 


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 

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


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 


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. 


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 

T o 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. — 


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, 


— until of his own accord he repudiateth all 
weariness, and what weariness hath taught through 

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 ! — 


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 

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 

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

For the soul which hath the longest ladder, and 


can go deepest down : how could there fail to be 
most parasites upon it? — 

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

— The soul in Being, which plungeth into 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 ? 


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 — 


1 love the brave : but it is not enough to be a 
swordsman, — one must also know whereon to use 
swordsmanship ! 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See how these peoples themselves now do just 
like the traders : they pick up the smallest 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 


also willeth to rule! And where the teaching is 
different, there — the best is lacking. 


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 ! 


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 ! 


Your marriage-arranging: see that it be not a 
bad arranging ! Ye have arranged too hastily : so 
XhtxQ foUoweth therefrom — marriage-breaking ! 



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

The badly paired found I ever the most 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 ! 


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

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

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

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


And whoever calleth out : " Lo, here is a well 
for many thirsty ones, one heart for many longing 
ones, one will for many instruments " : — around him 
collecteth ^ people^ that is to say, many attempting 

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! 


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- 

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 


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 th ey most, him who breaketh 
t hrr ti hlfifi and olfrvT aiiifts , 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. — 

O my brethren, have ye also understood this 
word? And what I once said of the "last 


With whom lieth the greatest danger to the whole 
human future ? Is it not with the good and just ? 
^ Br^g^Ji u^^^r eak up, Ij ueg^t-^um^ ^he good and Jus tly 
— O my brethren, have ye understood also this 


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


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 ! — 


" 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 


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! — 


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 : — 


— 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. 



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 

And once thou art awake, then shalt thou ever 


remain awake. It is not my custom to awake great- 
grandmothers out of their sleep that I may bid 
them — sleep on ! 

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

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

Joy to me ! Thou comest, — I hear thee ! Mine 
abyss speaketh, my lowest depth have I turned over 
into the light 1 

Joy to me ! Come hither ! Give me thy hand — 

— ha ! let be ! aha ! Disgust, disgust, disgust — 

alas to me ! 


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 

At last, after seven days, Zarathustra raised him- 


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 ! 


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. 


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 

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 : 


"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 return also 
.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. 


"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 

— ^"'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 

That thou must be the first to teach this teach- 
ing — how could this great fate not be thy greatest 
danger and infirmity 1 


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 th ings,— 

— 1" o speak again the word of the great noontide 


of earth and man, to announce again to man the 

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. 


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 

O my soul, I delivered thee from all by-places, 
I brushed down from thee dust and spiders and 

O my soul, I washed the petty shame and the 
by-place virtue from thee, and persuaded thee to 
stand naked before the eyes of the sun. 

With the storm that is called "spirit" did I 


blow over thy surging sea ; all clouds did I 
blow away from it ; I strangled even the strangler 
called " sin." 

O my soul, I gave thee the right to say Nay like 
the storm, and to say Yea as the open heaven saith 
Yea: calm as the light remainest thou, and now 
walkest through denying storms. 

O my soul, I restored to thee liberty over the 
created and the uncreated ; and who knoweth, as 
thou knowest, the voluptuousness of the future ? 

O my soul, I taught thee the contempt which 
doth not come like worm-eating, the great, the 
loving contempt, which loveth most where it 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 


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 

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 

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; 


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 

— 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 


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 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" 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 


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 

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 ! 


— 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 


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 

"Thou knowest that, O Zarathustra? That 
knoweth no one " 

And we gazed at each other, and looked at the 
green meadow o'er which the cool evening was just 


passing, and we wept together. — Then, however, 
was Life dearer unto me than all my Wisdom 
had ever been. — 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 

O man ! Take heed ! 

What saith deep midnight's voice indeed ? 

Three \ 

•* I slept my sleep — 

" l*'rom deepest dream I've woke and plead : — 

Five ! 
" The world is deep, 

" 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! 


" But joys all want eternity — 

Eleven \ 
" Want deep profound eternity I ** 

Twelve I 


{Or the Yea and Amen Lay.) 


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^ Eternity ! 


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 


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 ! 


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 ! 



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 ! — 


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, Eternity ! 


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, Eternity \ 



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). 


— 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 


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 

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 : 


— 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. 



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 


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 


The next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone 
in front of his cave, whilst his animals roved about 
in the world outside to bring home new food, — also 
new honey : for Zarathustra had spent and wasted 


the old honey to the very last particle. When he 
thus sat, however, with a stick in his hand, tracing 
the shadow of his figure on the earth, and 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 


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?" 


" 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, 


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 ! 


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. 

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 


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 


are fulsome obtrusive dogs ; they gild palm- 

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, 


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 

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.) 


*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 


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 

— 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 

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. 


And Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further 
and lower down, through forests and past moory 
bottoms; as it happeneth, however, to every one 


who meditateth upon hard matters, he trod thereby 
unawares upon a man. And lo, there spurted into 
his face all at once a cry of pain, and two curses 
and twenty bad invectives, so that in his fright he 
raised his stick and also struck the trodden one. 
Immediately afterwards, however, he regained his 
composure, and his heart laughed at the folly he 
had just committed. 

" 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 


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 

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 ! " — 


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 


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 

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 


think about that. Just now, however, a cry of 
distress calleth me hastily away from thee." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


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 — 



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 ? 


Thou crowdst me, pressest— 

Ha ! now far too closely ! 


Thou hearst me breathing, 

Thou o'erhearst my heart, 

Thou ever jealous one ! 

— Of what, pray, ever jealous ? 

Off! Off! 

For why the ladder ? 

Wouldst thou get in ? 

To heart in-clamber ? 

To mine own secretest 

Conceptions in-clamber ? 

Shameless one! Thou unknown one! — Thief! 

What seekst thou by thy stealing ? 

What seekst thou by thy hearkening ? 

What seekst thou by thy torturing ? 

Thou torturer ! 

Thou — hangman-God ! 

Or shall I, as the mastiffs do. 

Roll me before thee ? 

And cringing, enraptured, frantical, 

My tail friendly — waggle ! 

In vain ! 

Goad further ! 

Cruellest goader ! 

No dog — thy game just am I, 

Cruellest huntsman ! 

Thy proudest of captives, 

Thou robber 'hind the cloud -banks , . , 

Speak finally ! 

Thou lightning- veiled one ! Thou unknown one ! 

What wilt thou, highway-ambusher, from — me? 
What wilt thou, unfamiliar — God ? 



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 


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 ! 


— 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 


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- 

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 


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, 


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^ 

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 

— 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 

Many a one have I found who stretched and 


inflated himself, and the people cried : * Behold, a 
great man ! ' But what good do all bellows do ! 
The wind cometh out at last. 

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 

Thus spake Zarathustra, comforted in his heart, 
and went laughing on his way. 


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 


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 

" 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 

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 


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, 

It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who saith : 
'Who is ungodlier than I, that I may enjoy his 

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 — ; 


— 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. 


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. 


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 

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 

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 


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. 


— 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 


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 

Thou thinkest thyself wise, thou proud Zara- 
thustra! Read then the riddle, thou hard nut- 
cracker, — the riddle that I am ! Say then : who 

— When however Zarathustra had heard these 

words, — what think ye then took place in his soul ? 

Pity overcame him ; and he sank down all at once, 

like an oak that hath long withstood many tree- 



fellers, — heavily, suddenly, to the terror even of 
those who meant to fell it. But immediately he 
got up again from the ground, and his countenance 
became stern. 

" 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 

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// — 


— 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 

— 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 


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 ! 


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 

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 


then, do like me ! Thus wilt thou learn also from 
me j only the do er learn girh. 

And talk first and foremost to mine animals ! 
The proudest animal and the wisest animal — 
they might well be the right counsellors for us 

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." 


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 


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. 


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: 

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 


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 

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." 


" 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, 



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. 


and heaved his stick at the fond beggar, who, how- 
ever, ran nimbly away. 


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 

" 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- 


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 

" 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. 


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 


any longer that I love, — how should I still love 

• 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- 


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. 


— 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 


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. 



— 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 ! 


— 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 


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. 


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 


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 

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, 


— 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 


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 

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 


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 


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 ? 


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 


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 

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. 


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 ! 


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 


not. But man doth not live by bread alone, but 
also by the flesh of good lambs, of which I have 

— 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 


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. 


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 

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 


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 


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. 


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 


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 

These masters of to-day — surpass the m. O my 
brethren— these petty people : they arg ^eSuper- 
.^nan's greatest danger ! ^ 

ouTpass7 yc h TgHeTmen, the petty virtues , t;}ie 
ftettypoHcy^ne sand-grain consideratenessTth^ 
-aQtlin_ tmi^ry, the pitiable comfortableness, the 
_^ happine ss 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 



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. 

" 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<MPej3e tter and eyiler3;rSo do I_ 
t^aHVThfi^yjjest is necessaryj br 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 ! 

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. 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 suf fer enou gh for me ! For ye 
suffer from yourselves, ye havF not yet surtered 
from ma n. Ye would lie if ye spake otherwise! 
None of you suffereth from what / have 


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 ! 


Do not will anything beyond your power : there 
is a bad falseness in those who will beyond their 


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 

Take good care there, ye higher men ! For 
nothing is more precious to me, and rarer, than 

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. 


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- 

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. 


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. 


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 


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 

" For one's neighbour," is the virtue only of the 


petty people : there it is said " like and like," and 
"hand washeth hand ":— they have neither the 
right nor the power for }^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 

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 ! 


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 

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 


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 


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 

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. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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 " 


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 


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 


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 


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 ! 


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. 


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. 


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 ! 


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 


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 


the good air with one another. For the air here 
outside was better than with the higher men. 


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 — 


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 

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 

How once thou thirstedest 

For heaven's kindly teardrops and dew's down- 

All singed and weary thirstedest. 

What time on yellow grass-pathways 

Wicked, occidental sunny glances 

Through sombre trees about thee sported, 

Blindingly sunny glow-glances, gladly-hurting ? 


" Of truth the wooer ? Thou ? " — so taunted 

they — 
** Nay ! Merely poet ! 
A brute insidious, plundering, grovelling, 
That aye 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, 


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 

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 ! — 



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 ! 


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 

How then thou thirstedest ? — 
That I should banned be 
From all the trueness ! 
Mere fool J Mere poet i 

LXXV.— SCIENCE. ' 369 


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 

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 


of my song ? In thee there is little of the magic 

"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 


all paths, the misleaders. But if such longing in 
you be actual^ it seemeth to me nevertheless to be 

For fear — that is nian's original and fu ndame ntal 
feelm^T'lhrough fear everythmg is explained, 
original sin and original virtue. Through fear 
there grew also my virtue, that is to say: 

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 

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 


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 





" 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 ! 


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 

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 ! 
Solemnly ! 
In effect solemnly ! 
A worthy beginning I 


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, 


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 


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. 



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 ! 


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 


— Namely, the other leg — 

In the sanctified precincts. 


Nigh her very dearest, very tenderest, 
Flapping and fluttering and flickering skirting. 
Yea, if ye should, ye beauteous friendly ones, 
Quite take my word : 
She hath, alas ! lost it ! 
Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu ! Hu 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 ! 

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 ? — 



Ha ! Up now ! honour ! 

Moral honour ! European honour I 

Blow again, continue, 

Bellows-box of virtue ! 


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 ! 

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 


slipped out into the open air and spake to his 

"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 : 


" 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. 


All on a sudden however, Zarathustra's ear was 
frightened : for the cave which had hitherto been 


full of noise and laughter, became all at once still 
as death ; — his nose, however, smelt a sweet-scented 
vapour and incense-odour, as if from burning pine- 

" 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 

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. 


— 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. 




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 ! — " 


— " 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 


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. 


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 ! " 


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 

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" 


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, ne w 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. 


Meanwhile one after another had gone out into 
the open air, and into the cool, thoughtful night ; 
Zarathustra himself, however, led the ugliest man 
by the hand, that he might show him his night- 
world, and the great round moon, and the silvery 
water-falls near his cave. There they at last stood 
still beside one another ; all of them old people, 
but with comforted, brave hearts, and astonished 
in themselves that it was so well with them on 


earth ; the mystery of the night, however, came 
nigher and nigher to their hearts. And anew 
Zarathustra thought to himself: "Oh, how well 
do they now please me, these higher men ! " — but 
he did not say it aloud, for he respected their 
happiness and their silence. — 

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 

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 


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 ! " 


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 : 


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- 


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 ! 


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? 


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 ! 



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 

— 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 


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. 


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 


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- 

— 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- 


nity, it wanteth recurrence, it wanteth everything 

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 ! " 


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 


All joy wanteth the eternity of all things, it 
wanteth honey, it wanteth lees, it wanteth drunken 


midnight, it wanteth graves, it wanteth grave-tears' 
consolation, it wanteth gilded evening-red — 

— 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 / 


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 


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 ! " 


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. 



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 

— 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 

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 


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 

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 


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 


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. 



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 

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,sr hft's - 
iiuoks liiai luUb lalu the hands of the uninitiated. 

The title suggests all kinds of mysteries ; a glance 


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 

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 th e deepes t_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 

These directions, though they are by no means 
siDiple to carry out, seem at least to possess the quality 


of definiteness and straightforwardness. "Follow 
them and all will be clear," I seem to imply. But I 
regret to say that this is not really the case. For my 
experience tells me that even after the above directions 
have been followed with the greatest possible zeal, the 
student will still halt in perplexity before certain 
passages in the book before us, and wonder what 
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 adopti ng 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 expe dierifs 
-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, 

ity Compared. 


the slave-morality, it is the lamb which, looking up 
from the sward, bleats dissentingly : " eating lamb is 
(^.) 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, po wer, 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^^g f^ mt^ ^ ^ he hifjhest possible being . 
-«gh ich 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 



Nietzsche as a sociologist aims at a n aristocratic {D.) Niettstht 
arran geme nt of soc iet^.^^ 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 equ al.'" He sees precisely in 
this inequality a purpose to be served, a condition 


to be exploited. "Every elevation of the type 
*man,'" he writes in "Beyond Good and Evil," "has 
hitherto been the work of an aristocratic society — and 
so will it always be — a society believing in a long 
scale of gradations of rank and differences of worth 
among human beings." 

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 th g^ intellect and Chapter IV. 
■ th^ instincts ! he calls the one "the lit t]e sag arity" and "^^ Despisers 
the latter " the big sag acity." Schopenhauer's teaching °^ ^^"^ ^'^^• 
concerning the intellect is fully endorsed here. " An 


instrument of thy body is also thy little sagacity, my 

brother, which thou callest ' spirit,' " says Zarathustra. 

From beginning to end it is a warning to those who 

would think too lightly of the instincts and unduly 

exalt the intellect and its derivatives : Reason and 


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, a nd declar es 
^"^ *-*"^ all morahty to h fi 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 ar e 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 o f 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). 



Chapter XXI 




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). 


The Child 
with the 

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 

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 





The Famous 
Wise Ones. 

The Grave- 


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. 

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 

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 








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 

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. 







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. 



The Vision 
and the 

"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. 

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 




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 


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 
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 


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 mr ee 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 


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 

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 

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. 


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 

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 


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 

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 


/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 


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 


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 wh at 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 

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. 


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 

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 


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 

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. 


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 

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 



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 



The Supper. 

The Higher 
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 

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 



Pars. 1 6, 17, 
18, 19, 20. 

The Song of 


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- 



The Ass- 

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 

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 do ctrine of the 
,J£ ternal Recurrence a ppears 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 


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. 


London, February 1909. 



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. 


ESSAYS. Translated by M. A. MCgc.k, Ph.D. Crown 8vo. 


INSTITUTIONS. Translated by J. M. Kknnruv. 

{Second Edition. 


lated by A. M. Luixnici, with Editorial Note. \T hi rd Edition. 

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. 

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. 


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. 


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. 

Tyr> rvSV 

g^Q ^ " 1083 

> . 


%B 8-1985 




> >-