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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XX. CHILD AND MARRIAGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXI. VOLUNTARY DEATH.

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

Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXII. THE BESTOWING VIRTUE.

1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus spake Zarathustra.

THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. SECOND PART.

“—and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you.

Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones;
with another love shall I then love you.”—ZARATHUSTRA, I., “The
Bestowing Virtue.”

XXIII. THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR.

After this Zarathustra returned again into the mountains to the solitude
of his cave, and withdrew himself from men, waiting like a sower who
hath scattered his seed. His soul, however, became impatient and full of
longing for those whom he loved: because he had still much to give them.
For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love, and keep
modest as a giver.

Thus passed with the lonesome one months and years; his wisdom meanwhile
increased, and caused him pain by its abundance.

One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy dawn, and having meditated
long on his couch, at last spake thus to his heart:

Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke? Did not a child come to
me, carrying a mirror?

“O Zarathustra”—said the child unto me—“look at thyself in the
mirror!”

But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked, and my heart throbbed:
for not myself did I see therein, but a devil’s grimace and derision.

Verily, all too well do I understand the dream’s portent and monition:
my DOCTRINE is in danger; tares want to be called wheat!

Mine enemies have grown powerful and have disfigured the likeness of
my doctrine, so that my dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I
gave them.

Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me to seek my lost ones!—

With these words Zarathustra started up, not however like a person in
anguish seeking relief, but rather like a seer and a singer whom the
spirit inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and serpent gaze upon
him: for a coming bliss overspread 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! 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 THE 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 lonesome mountains; on the rough
stones did she bear the youngest of her young.

Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilderness, and seeketh and
seeketh the soft sward—mine old, wild wisdom!

On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends!—on your love, would she
fain couch her dearest one!—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXIV. IN THE HAPPY ISLES.

The figs fall from the trees, they are good and sweet; and in falling
the red skins of them break. A north wind am I to ripe figs.

Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you, my friends: imbibe
now their juice and their sweet substance! It is autumn all around, and
clear sky, and afternoon.

Lo, what fulness is around us! And out of the midst of superabundance,
it is delightful to look out upon distant seas.

Once did people say God, when they looked out upon distant seas; now,
however, have I taught you to say, Superman.

God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond
your creating will.

Could ye CREATE a God?—Then, I pray you, be silent about all Gods! But
ye could well create the Superman.

Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But into fathers and forefathers
of the Superman could ye transform yourselves: and let that be your best
creating!—

God is a conjecture: but I should like your conjecturing restricted to
the conceivable.

Could ye CONCEIVE a God?—But let this mean Will to Truth unto you,
that everything be transformed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly
visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discernment shall ye follow out
to the end!

And what ye have called the world shall but be created by you: your
reason, your likeness, your will, your love, shall it itself become! And
verily, for your bliss, ye discerning ones!

And how would ye endure life without that hope, ye discerning ones?
Neither in the inconceivable could ye have been born, nor in the
irrational.

But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto you, my friends: IF there
were gods, how could I endure it to be no God! THEREFORE there are no
Gods.

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

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

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

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

Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teaching about the one, and
the plenum, and the unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable!

All the imperishable—that’s but a simile, and the poets lie too much.—

But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall
they be, and a justification of all perishableness!

Creating—that is the great salvation from suffering, and life’s
alleviation. But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed,
and much transformation.

Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! 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 emancipator and comforter.

Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will and
emancipation—so teacheth you Zarathustra.

No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no longer creating! Ah,
that that great debility may ever be far from me!

And also in discerning do I feel only my will’s procreating and evolving
delight; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because there
is will to procreation in it.

Away from God and Gods did this will allure me; what would there be to
create if there were—Gods!

But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent creative will; thus
impelleth it the hammer to the stone.

Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image for me, the image of my
visions! Ah, that it should slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone!

Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone fly
the fragments: what’s that to me?

I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—the stillest and lightest
of all things once came unto me!

The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of
what account now are—the Gods to me!—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXV. THE PITIFUL.

My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your friend: “Behold
Zarathustra! Walketh he not amongst us as if amongst animals?”

But it is better said in this wise: “The discerning one walketh amongst
men AS amongst animals.”

Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal with red cheeks.

How hath that happened unto him? Is it not because he hath had to be
ashamed too oft?

O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning one: shame, shame,
shame—that is the history of man!

And on that account doth the noble one enjoin upon himself not to abash:
bashfulness doth he enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers.

Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose bliss is in their
pity: too destitute are they of bashfulness.

If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so; and if I be so, it is
preferably at a distance.

Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee, before being recognised:
and thus do I bid you do, my friends!

May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like you across my path, and
those with whom I MAY have hope and repast and honey in common!

Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but something
better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself
better.

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 forgotten, it becometh a gnawing worm.

“Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accepting!”—thus do I advise those
who have naught to bestow.

I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow as friend to friends.
Strangers, however, and the poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit
from my tree: thus doth it cause less shame.

Beggars, however, one should entirely do away with! Verily, it annoyeth
one to give unto them, and it annoyeth one not to give unto them.

And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the
sting of conscience teacheth one to sting.

The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to
have done evilly than to have thought pettily!

To be sure, ye say: “The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great
evil deed.” But here one should not wish to be sparing.

Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh
forth—it speaketh honourably.

“Behold, I am disease,” saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness.

But like infection is the petty thought: it creepeth and hideth, and
wanteth to be nowhere—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! And many
a one becometh transparent to us, but still we can by no means penetrate
him.

It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult.

And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who
doth not concern us at all.

If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a resting-place for
his suffering; like a hard bed, however, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou
serve him best.

And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: “I forgive thee what thou
hast done unto me; that thou hast done it unto THYSELF, however—how
could I forgive that!”

Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity.

One should hold fast one’s heart; for when one letteth it go, how
quickly doth one’s head run away!

Ah, where in the world have 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 elevation which is above their
pity!

Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: “Even God hath his hell:
it is his love for man.”

And lately, did I hear him say these words: “God is dead: of his pity
for man hath God died.”—

So be ye warned against pity: FROM THENCE there yet cometh unto men a
heavy cloud! Verily, I understand weather-signs!

But attend also to this word: All great love is above all its pity: for
it seeketh—to create what is loved!

“Myself do I offer unto my love, AND MY NEIGHBOUR AS MYSELF”—such is
the language of all creators.

All creators, however, are hard.—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXVI. THE PRIESTS.

And one day Zarathustra made a sign to his disciples, and spake these
words unto them:

“Here are priests: but although they are mine enemies, pass them quietly
and with sleeping swords!

Even among them there are heroes; many of them have suffered too much—:
so they want to make others suffer.

Bad enemies are they: nothing is more revengeful 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 Zarathustra; but not long had
he struggled with the pain, when he began to speak thus:

It moveth my heart for those priests. They also go against my taste; but
that is the smallest matter unto me, since I am among men.

But I suffer and have suffered with them: prisoners are they unto me,
and stigmatised ones. He whom they call Saviour put them in fetters:—

In fetters of false values and fatuous words! Oh, that some one would
save them from their Saviour!

On an 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!

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 otherwise than by nailing men to
the cross!

As corpses they thought to live; in black draped they their corpses;
even in their talk do I still feel the evil flavour of charnel-houses.

And he who liveth nigh unto them liveth nigh unto black pools, wherein
the toad singeth his song with sweet gravity.

Better songs would they have to sing, for me to believe in their
Saviour: more like saved ones would his disciples have to appear unto
me!

Naked, would I like to see them: for beauty alone should preach
penitence. But whom would that disguised affliction convince!

Verily, their Saviours themselves came not from freedom and freedom’s
seventh heaven! Verily, they themselves never trod the carpets of
knowledge!

Of defects did the spirit of those Saviours consist; but into every
defect had they put their illusion, their stop-gap, which they called
God.

In their pity was their spirit drowned; and when they swelled and
o’erswelled with pity, there always floated to the surface a great
folly.

Eagerly and with shouts drove they their flock over their foot-bridge;
as if there were but one foot-bridge to the future! Verily, those
shepherds also were still of the flock!

Small spirits and spacious souls had those shepherds: but, my brethren,
what small domains have even the most spacious souls hitherto been!

Characters of blood did they write on the way they went, and their folly
taught that truth is proved by blood.

But blood is the very worst witness to truth; blood tainteth the purest
teaching, and turneth it into delusion and hatred of heart.

And when a person goeth through fire for his teaching—what doth that
prove! It is more, verily, when out of one’s own burning cometh one’s
own teaching!

Sultry heart and cold head; where these meet, there ariseth the
blusterer, the “Saviour.”

Greater ones, verily, have there been, and higher-born ones, than those
whom the people call Saviours, those rapturous blusterers!

And by still greater ones than any of the Saviours must ye be saved, my
brethren, if ye would find the way to freedom!

Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them,
the greatest man and the smallest man:—

All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily, even the greatest
found I—all-too-human!—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXVII. THE VIRTUOUS.

With thunder and heavenly fireworks must one speak to indolent and
somnolent senses.

But beauty’s voice speaketh gently: it appealeth only to the most
awakened souls.

Gently vibrated and laughed unto me to-day my buckler; it was beauty’s
holy laughing and thrilling.

At you, ye virtuous ones, laughed my beauty to-day. And thus came its
voice unto me: “They want—to be paid besides!”

Ye want to be paid besides, ye virtuous ones! Ye want reward for virtue,
and heaven for earth, and eternity for your to-day?

And now ye upbraid me for teaching that there is no reward-giver,
nor paymaster? And verily, I do not even teach that virtue is its own
reward.

Ah! this is my sorrow: into the basis of things have reward and
punishment been insinuated—and now even into the basis of your souls,
ye virtuous ones!

But like the snout of the boar shall my word grub up the basis of your
souls; a ploughshare will I be called by you.

All the secrets of your heart shall be brought to light; and when ye
lie in the sun, grubbed up and broken, then will also your falsehood be
separated from your truth.

For this is your truth: ye are TOO PURE for the filth of the words:
vengeance, punishment, recompense, retribution.

Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child; but when did one hear
of a mother wanting to be paid for her love?

It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring’s thirst is in you: to
reach itself again struggleth every ring, and turneth itself.

And like the star that goeth out, so is every work of your virtue: ever
is its light on its way and travelling—and when will it cease to be on
its way?

Thus is the light of your virtue still on its way, even when its work
is done. Be it forgotten and dead, still its ray of light liveth and
travelleth.

That your virtue is your Self, and not an outward thing, a skin, or
a cloak: that is the truth from the basis of your souls, ye virtuous
ones!—

But sure enough there are those to whom virtue meaneth writhing under
the lash: and ye have hearkened too much unto their crying!

And others are there who call virtue the slothfulness of their vices;
and when once their hatred and jealousy relax the limbs, their “justice”
 becometh lively and rubbeth its sleepy eyes.

And others are there who are drawn downwards: their devils draw them.
But the more they sink, the more ardently gloweth their eye, and the
longing for their God.

Ah! their crying also hath reached your ears, ye virtuous ones: “What I
am NOT, that, that is God to me, and virtue!”

And others are there who go along heavily and creakingly, like carts
taking stones downhill: they talk much of dignity and virtue—their drag
they call virtue!

And others are there who are like eight-day clocks when wound up; they
tick, and want people to call ticking—virtue.

Verily, in those have I mine amusement: wherever I find such clocks I
shall wind them up with my mockery, and they shall even whirr thereby!

And others are proud of their modicum of righteousness, and for the sake
of it do violence to all things: so that the world is drowned in their
unrighteousness.

Ah! how ineptly cometh the word “virtue” out of their mouth! And when
they say: “I am just,” it always soundeth like: “I am just—revenged!”

With their virtues they want to scratch out the eyes of their 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 participate in virtue; and at
least every one claimeth to be an authority on “good” and “evil.”

But Zarathustra came not to say unto all those liars and fools: “What do
YE know of virtue! What COULD ye know of virtue!”—

But that ye, my friends, might become weary of the old words which ye
have learned from the fools and liars:

That ye might become weary of the words “reward,” “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 playthings, 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.

XXVIII. THE RABBLE.

Life is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all
fountains are poisoned.

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

They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glanceth up to me
their odious smile out of the fountain.

The holy water have they poisoned with their lustfulness; and when they
called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words.

Indignant becometh the flame when they put their damp hearts to the
fire; the spirit itself bubbleth and smoketh when the rabble approach
the fire.

Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit in their hands: unsteady, and
withered at the top, doth their look make the fruit-tree.

And many a one who hath turned away from life, hath only turned away
from the rabble: he hated to share with them fountain, flame, and fruit.

And many a one who hath gone into the wilderness and suffered thirst
with beasts of prey, disliked only to sit at the cistern with filthy
camel-drivers.

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

And it is not the mouthful which hath most choked me, to know that life
itself requireth enmity and death and torture-crosses:—

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

Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking fires, and 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 of spirit, when I found even the rabble spiritual!

And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw what they now call
ruling: to traffic and bargain for power—with the rabble!

Amongst peoples of a strange language did I dwell, with stopped ears: so
that the language of their trafficking might remain strange unto me, and
their bargaining for power.

And holding my nose, I went morosely through all yesterdays and to-days:
verily, badly smell all yesterdays and to-days of the scribbling rabble!

Like a cripple become deaf, and blind, and dumb—thus have I lived long;
that I might not live with the power-rabble, the scribe-rabble, and the
pleasure-rabble.

Toilsomely did my spirit mount stairs, and cautiously; alms of delight
were its refreshment; on the staff did life creep along with the blind
one.

What hath happened unto me? How have I freed myself from loathing?
Who hath rejuvenated mine eye? How have I flown to the height where no
rabble any longer sit at the wells?

Did my loathing itself create for me wings and fountain-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 June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide!

A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissful
stillness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become more
blissful!

For this is OUR height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell
for all uncleanly ones and their thirst.

Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! How
could it become turbid thereby! It shall laugh back to you with ITS
purity.

On the tree of the future build we our nest; eagles shall bring us lone
ones food in their beaks!

Verily, no food of which the impure could be fellow-partakers! Fire,
would they think they devoured, and burn their mouths!

Verily, no abodes do we here keep ready for the impure! An ice-cave to
their bodies would our happiness be, and to their spirits!

And as strong winds will we live above them, neighbours to the eagles,
neighbours to the snow, neighbours to the sun: thus live the strong
winds.

And like a wind will I one day blow amongst them, and with my spirit,
take the breath from their spirit: thus willeth my future.

Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low places; and this counsel
counselleth he to his enemies, and to whatever spitteth and speweth:
“Take care not to spit AGAINST the wind!”—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXIX. THE TARANTULAS.

Lo, this is the tarantula’s den! Wouldst 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
“justice.”

Because, FOR MAN TO BE REDEEMED FROM 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 henceforth 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 in
the son the father’s revealed secret.

Inspired ones they resemble: but it is not the heart that inspireth
them—but vengeance. And when they become subtle and cold, it is not
spirit, but envy, that maketh them so.

Their jealousy leadeth them also into thinkers’ paths; and this is the
sign of their jealousy—they always go too far: so that their fatigue
hath at last to go to sleep on the snow.

In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance, in all their eulogies is
maleficence; and being judge seemeth to them bliss.

But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse
to punish is powerful!

They are people of bad race and lineage; out of their countenances peer
the hangman and the sleuth-hound.

Distrust all those who talk much of their justice! Verily, in their
souls not only honey is lacking.

And when they call themselves “the good and just,” forget not, that for
them to be Pharisees, nothing is lacking but—power!

My friends, I will not be mixed up and confounded with others.

There are those who preach my doctrine of life, and are at the same time
preachers of equality, and tarantulas.

That they speak in favour of life, though they sit in their den, these
poison-spiders, and withdrawn from life—is because they would thereby
do injury.

To those would they thereby do injury who have power at present: for
with those the preaching of death is still most at home.

Were it otherwise, then would the tarantulas teach otherwise: and they
themselves were formerly the best world-maligners and heretic-burners.

With these preachers of equality will I not be mixed up and confounded.
For thus speaketh justice UNTO ME: “Men are not equal.”

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!

Good and evil, and rich and poor, and high and low, and all names of
values: weapons shall they be, and sounding signs, that life must again
and again surpass itself!

Aloft will it build itself with columns and stairs—life itself: into
remote distances would it gaze, and out towards blissful beauties—
THEREFORE doth it require elevation!

And because it requireth elevation, therefore doth it require steps, and
variance of steps and climbers! To rise striveth life, and in rising to
surpass itself.

And just behold, my friends! Here where the tarantula’s den is, riseth
aloft an ancient temple’s 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.

XXX. THE FAMOUS WISE ONES.

The people have ye served and the people’s superstition—NOT the
truth!—all ye famous wise ones! And just on that account did they pay
you reverence.

And on that account also did they tolerate your unbelief, because it
was a pleasantry and a by-path for the people. Thus doth the master give
free scope to his slaves, and even enjoyeth their presumptuousness.

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

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

“For there the truth is, where the people are! Woe, woe to 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 “conscientiousness,” ye would
first have to break your venerating will.

Conscientious—so call I him who goeth into God-forsaken wildernesses,
and hath broken his venerating heart.

In the yellow sands and burnt by the sun, he doubtless peereth thirstily
at the isles rich in fountains, where life 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-inspiring, grand and lonesome: so is the will of the
conscientious.

In the wilderness have ever dwelt the conscientious, 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 experienced the happiness of the
alarm of the spirit. And he who is not a bird should not camp above
abysses.

Ye seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly floweth all deep knowledge.
Ice-cold are the innermost wells of the spirit: a refreshment to hot
hands and handlers.

Respectable do ye there stand, and stiff, and with straight backs, ye
famous wise ones!—no strong wind or will impelleth you.

Have ye ne’er seen a sail crossing the sea, rounded and inflated, and
trembling with the violence of the wind?

Like the sail trembling with the violence of the spirit, doth my wisdom
cross the sea—my wild wisdom!

But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise ones—how COULD ye go with
me!—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXXI. THE NIGHT-SONG.

‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also
is a gushing fountain.

‘Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul
also is the song of a loving one.

Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longeth to find
expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the
language of love.

Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be
begirt with light!

Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of
light!

And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms
aloft!—and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.

But I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that
break forth from me.

I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that
stealing must be more blessed than receiving.

It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy
that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.

Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the
craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety!

They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap ‘twixt
giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged
over.

A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I
illumine; I should like to rob those I have gifted:—thus do I hunger
for wickedness.

Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretcheth out to it;
hesitating like the cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap:—thus do
I hunger for wickedness!

Such revenge doth mine abundance think of: such mischief welleth out of
my lonesomeness.

My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of
itself by its abundance!

He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing his shame; to him who ever
dispenseth, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing.

Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath
become too hard for the trembling of filled hands.

Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart? Oh,
the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!

Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with
their light—but to me they are silent.

Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: 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!

Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there
is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst!

‘Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly!
And lonesomeness!

‘Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain,—for
speech do I long.

‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also
is a gushing fountain.

‘Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is
the song of a loving one.—

Thus sang Zarathustra.

XXXII. THE DANCE-SONG.

One evening went Zarathustra and his disciples through the forest; and
when he sought for a well, lo, he lighted upon a green meadow peacefully
surrounded with trees and bushes, where maidens were dancing together.
As soon as the maidens recognised Zarathustra, they ceased dancing;
Zarathustra, however, approached them with friendly mien and spake these
words:

Cease not your dancing, ye lovely maidens! No game-spoiler hath come to
you with evil eye, no enemy of maidens.

God’s advocate am I with the devil: he, however, is the spirit of
gravity. How could I, ye light-footed ones, be hostile to divine dances?
Or to maidens’ feet with fine ankles?

To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not
afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.

And even the little God may he find, who is dearest to maidens: beside
the well lieth he quietly, with closed eyes.

Verily, in broad daylight did he fall asleep, the sluggard! Had he
perhaps chased butterflies too much?

Upbraid me not, ye beautiful dancers, when I chasten the little God
somewhat! He will cry, certainly, and weep—but he is laughable even
when weeping!

And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a dance; and I myself
will sing a song to his dance:

A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity my supremest,
powerfulest devil, who is said to be “lord of the world.”—

And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when Cupid and the maidens
danced together:

Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life! And into the unfathomable did
I there seem to sink.

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

“Such is the language of all fish,” saidst thou; “what THEY do not
fathom is unfathomable.

But changeable am I only, and wild, and altogether a woman, and no
virtuous one:

Though I be called by you men the ‘profound one,’ or the ‘faithful one,’
‘the eternal one,’ ‘the mysterious one.’

But ye men endow us always with your own virtues—alas, ye virtuous
ones!”

Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but never do I 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 willest, 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 verily, 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 alike?

And when once Life asked me: “Who is she then, this Wisdom?”—then said
I eagerly: “Ah, yes! Wisdom!

One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one looketh through veils,
one graspeth through nets.

Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured
by her.

Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and
pass the comb against the grain of her hair.

Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she
speaketh ill of herself, just then doth she seduce most.”

When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she maliciously, and shut
her eyes. “Of whom dost thou speak?” said she. “Perhaps of me?

And if thou wert right—is it proper to say THAT in such wise to my
face! But now, pray, speak also of thy Wisdom!”

Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine eyes, O beloved Life! And into
the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink.—

Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had
departed, he became sad.

“The sun hath been long set,” said he at last, “the meadow is damp, and
from the forest cometh coolness.

An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou
livest still, Zarathustra?

Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to
live?—

Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me.
Forgive me my sadness!

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

Thus sang Zarathustra.

XXXIII. THE GRAVE-SONG.

“Yonder is the grave-island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves
of my youth. Thither will I carry an evergreen wreath of life.”

Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o’er the sea.—

Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all ye gleams of love, ye
divine fleeting gleams! How could ye perish so soon for me! I think of
you to-day as my dead ones.

From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto me a sweet savour,
heart-opening and melting. Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart
of the lone seafarer.

Still am I the richest and most to be envied—I, the lonesomest one!
For I HAVE POSSESSED you, and ye possess me still. Tell me: to whom hath
there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen unto me?

Still am I your love’s heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with
many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O ye dearest ones!

Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each other, ye kindly strange
marvels; and not like timid birds did ye come to me and my longing—nay,
but as trusting ones to a trusting one!

Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities, must I now
name you by your faithlessness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams:
no other name have I yet learnt.

Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives. Yet did ye not flee
from me, nor did I flee from you: innocent are we to each other in our
faithlessness.

To kill ME, 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 manslaughter; the irretrievable
did ye take from me:—thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies!

Slew ye not my youth’s visions and dearest marvels! My playmates took ye
from me, the blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit this wreath
and this curse.

This curse upon you, mine enemies! Have ye not made 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
flee?

As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways: then did ye cast
filth on the blind one’s course: and now is he disgusted with the old
footpath.

And when I performed my hardest task, and celebrated the triumph of
my victories, then did ye make those who loved me call out that I then
grieved them most.

Verily, it was always your doing: ye embittered to me my best honey, and
the diligence of my best bees.

To my charity have ye ever sent the most impudent beggars; around my
sympathy have ye ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus have ye
wounded the faith of my virtue.

And when I offered my holiest as a sacrifice, immediately did your
“piety” put its fatter gifts beside it: so that my holiest suffocated in
the fumes of your fat.

And once did I want to dance as I had never yet danced: beyond all
heavens did I want to dance. Then did ye seduce my favourite minstrel.

And now hath he struck up an awful, melancholy air; alas, he tooted as a
mournful horn to mine ear!

Murderous minstrel, instrument of evil, most innocent instrument!
Already did I stand prepared for the best dance: then didst thou slay my
rapture with thy tones!

Only in the dance do I know how to speak the parable of the highest
things:—and now hath my grandest parable 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!

How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and surmount such wounds? How
did my soul rise again out of those sepulchres?

Yea, something invulnerable, unburiable is with me, something that would
rend rocks asunder: it is called MY WILL. Silently doth it proceed, and
unchanged throughout the years.

Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will; hard of heart is its
nature and invulnerable.

Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever livest thou there, and art like
thyself, thou most patient one! Ever hast thou burst all shackles of the
tomb!

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

Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all graves: Hail to thee,
my Will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections.—

Thus sang Zarathustra.

XXXIV. SELF-SURPASSING.

“Will to Truth” do ye call it, ye wisest ones, that which impelleth you
and maketh you ardent?

Will for the thinkableness of all being: thus do _I_ call your will!

All being would ye MAKE thinkable: for ye doubt with good reason whether
it be already thinkable.

But it shall accommodate and bend itself to you! So willeth your will.
Smooth shall it become and subject to the spirit, as its mirror and
reflection.

That is your entire will, ye wisest ones, as a Will to Power; and even
when ye speak of good and evil, and of estimates of value.

Ye would still create a world before which ye can bow the knee: such is
your ultimate hope and ecstasy.

The ignorant, to be sure, the people—they are like a river on which a
boat floateth along: and in the boat sit the estimates of value, solemn
and disguised.

Your will and your valuations have ye put on the river of becoming; it
betrayeth unto me an old Will to Power, what is believed by the people
as good and evil.

It was ye, ye wisest ones, who put such guests in this boat, and gave
them pomp and proud names—ye and your ruling Will!

Onward the river now carrieth your boat: it MUST carry it. A small
matter if the rough wave foameth and angrily resisteth its keel!

It is not the river that is your danger and the end of your good and
evil, ye wisest ones: but that Will itself, the Will to Power—the
unexhausted, procreating life-will.

But that ye may understand my gospel of good and evil, for that purpose
will I tell you my gospel of life, and of the nature of all living
things.

The living thing did I follow; I walked in the broadest and narrowest
paths to learn its nature.

With a hundred-faced mirror did I catch its glance when its mouth was
shut, so that its eye might speak unto me. And its eye spake unto me.

But wherever I found living things, there heard I also the language of
obedience. All living things are obeying things.

And this heard I secondly: Whatever cannot obey itself, is commanded.
Such is the nature of living things.

This, however, is the third thing which I heard—namely, that commanding
is more difficult than obeying. And not only because the commander
beareth the burden of all obeyers, and because this burden readily
crusheth him:—

An attempt and a risk seemed all commanding unto me; and whenever it
commandeth, the living thing risketh itself thereby.

Yea, even when it commandeth itself, then also must it atone for its
commanding. Of its own law must it become the judge and avenger and
victim.

How doth this happen! so did I ask myself. What persuadeth the living
thing to obey, and command, and even be obedient in commanding?

Hearken now unto my word, ye wisest ones! Test it seriously, whether
I have crept into the heart of life itself, and into the roots of its
heart!

Wherever I found a living thing, there found I Will to Power; and even
in the will of the servant found I the will to be master.

That to the stronger the weaker shall serve—thereto persuadeth he his
will who would be master over a still weaker one. That delight alone he
is unwilling to forego.

And as the lesser surrendereth himself to the greater that he may have
delight and power over the least of all, so doth even the greatest
surrender himself, and staketh—life, for the sake of power.

It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and danger, and play
dice for death.

And where there is sacrifice and service and love-glances, there also
is the will to be master. By by-ways doth the weaker then slink into
the fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one—and there stealeth
power.

And this secret spake Life herself unto me. “Behold,” said she, “I am
that WHICH MUST EVER SURPASS ITSELF.

To be sure, ye call it will to procreation, or impulse towards a goal,
towards the higher, remoter, more manifold: but all that is one and the
same secret.

Rather would I succumb than disown this one thing; and verily, where
there is succumbing and leaf-falling, lo, there doth Life sacrifice
itself—for power!

That I have to be struggle, and becoming, and purpose, and
cross-purpose—ah, he who divineth my will, divineth well also on what
CROOKED paths it hath to tread!

Whatever I create, and however much I love it,—soon must I be adverse
to it, and to my love: so willeth my will.

And even thou, discerning one, art only a path and footstep of my will:
verily, my Will to Power walketh even on the feet of thy Will to Truth!

He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at it the formula: ‘Will to
existence’: that will—doth not exist!

For what is not, cannot will; that, however, which is in existence—how
could it still strive for existence!

Only where there is life, is there also will: not, however, Will to
Life, but—so teach I thee—Will to Power!

Much is reckoned higher than life itself by the living one; but out of
the very reckoning speaketh—the Will to Power!”—

Thus did Life once teach me: and thereby, ye wisest ones, do I solve you
the riddle of your hearts.

Verily, I say unto you: good and evil which would be everlasting—it
doth not exist! Of its own accord must it ever 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 egg-shell.

And he who hath to be a creator in good and evil—verily, he hath first
to be a destroyer, and break values in pieces.

Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however,
is the creating good.—

Let us SPEAK thereof, ye wisest ones, even though it be bad. To be
silent is worse; all suppressed truths become poisonous.

And let everything break up which—can break up by our truths! Many a
house is still to be built!—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXXV. THE SUBLIME ONES.

Calm is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hideth droll
monsters!

Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with swimming enigmas and
laughters.

A sublime one saw I to-day, a solemn one, a penitent of the spirit: Oh,
how my soul laughed at his ugliness!

With upraised breast, and like those who draw in their breath: thus did
he stand, the sublime one, and in silence:

O’erhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his hunting, and rich in torn
raiment; many thorns also hung on him—but I saw no rose.

Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty. Gloomy did this hunter
return from the forest of knowledge.

From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild
beast gazeth out of his seriousness—an unconquered wild beast!

As a tiger doth he ever stand, on the point of springing; but I do not
like those strained souls; ungracious is my taste towards all those
self-engrossed ones.

And ye tell me, friends, that there is to be no dispute about taste and
tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting!

Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas
for every living thing that would live without dispute about weight and
scales and weigher!

Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this sublime one, then only
will his beauty begin—and then only will I taste him and find him
savoury.

And only when he turneth 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 ploughshare: and his lowing should also laud all
that is earthly!

Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand danceth upon it.
O’ershadowed is still the sense of his eye.

His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscureth the
doer. Not yet hath he overcome his deed.

To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want to
see also the eye of the angel.

Also his hero-will hath he still to unlearn: an exalted one shall he
be, and not only a sublime one:—the ether itself should raise him, the
will-less one!

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

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

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

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

But precisely to the hero is BEAUTY the hardest thing of all.
Unattainable is beauty by all ardent wills.

A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the
most here.

To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the
hardest for all of you, ye sublime ones!

When power becometh gracious and descendeth into the visible—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
sustaining—the higher it riseth.

Yea, thou sublime one, one day shalt thou also be beautiful, and hold up
the mirror to thine own beauty.

Then will thy soul thrill with divine desires; and there will be
adoration even in thy vanity!

For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero hath abandoned it,
then only approacheth it in dreams—the superhero.—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXXVI. THE LAND OF CULTURE.

Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me.

And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary.

Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and always faster. Thus did I come
unto you, ye present-day men, and into the land of culture.

For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily,
with longing in my heart did I come.

But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed—I had yet to
laugh! Never did mine eye see anything so motley-coloured!

I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as
well. “Here forsooth, is the home of all the paintpots,”—said I.

With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs—so sat ye there to mine
astonishment, ye present-day men!

And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours,
and repeated it!

Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own
faces! Who could—RECOGNISE you!

Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters
also pencilled over with new characters—thus have ye concealed
yourselves well from all decipherers!

And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that ye have
reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps.

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 bygone!—Fatter and fuller than ye, are forsooth the
nether-worldlings!

This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither endure
you naked nor clothed, ye present-day men!

All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds
shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your “reality.”

For thus speak ye: “Real 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!

Perambulating refutations are ye, of belief itself, and a dislocation of
all thought. UNTRUSTWORTHY ONES: thus do _I_ 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.

XXXVII. IMMACULATE PERCEPTION.

When yester-eve the moon arose, then did I fancy it about to bear a sun:
so broad and teeming did it lie on the horizon.

But it was a liar with its pregnancy; and sooner will I believe in the
man in the moon than in the woman.

To be sure, little of a man is he also, that timid night-reveller.
Verily, with a bad conscience doth he stalk over the roofs.

For he is covetous and jealous, the monk in the moon; covetous of the
earth, and all the joys of lovers.

Nay, I like him not, that tom-cat on the roofs! Hateful unto me are all
that slink around half-closed windows!

Piously and silently doth he stalk along on the star-carpets:—but I
like no light-treading human feet, on which not even a spur jingleth.

Every honest one’s step speaketh; the cat however, stealeth along over
the ground. Lo! cat-like doth the moon come along, and dishonestly.—

This parable speak I unto you sentimental dissemblers, unto you, the
“pure discerners!” You do _I_ call—covetous ones!

Also ye love the earth, and the earthly: I have divined you well!—but
shame is in your love, and a bad conscience—ye are like the moon!

To despise the earthly hath your spirit been persuaded, but not your
bowels: these, however, are the strongest in you!

And now is your spirit ashamed to be at the service of your bowels, and
goeth 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 hanging-out tongue:

To be happy in gazing: with dead will, free from the grip and greed
of selfishness—cold and ashy-grey all over, but with intoxicated
moon-eyes!

That would be the dearest thing to me”—thus doth the 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 with my whole Will; where I will love
and perish, that an image may not remain merely an image.

Loving and perishing: these have rhymed from eternity. Will to love:
that is to be ready also for death. Thus do I speak unto you cowards!

But now doth your emasculated ogling profess to be “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, stammering words: gladly do I pick
up what falleth from the table at your repasts.

Yet still can I say therewith the truth—to dissemblers! Yea, my
fish-bones, shells, and prickly leaves shall—tickle the noses of
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 concealed from me: and that
a lizard’s craft prowled thereabouts lasciviously.

But I came NIGH unto you: then came to me the day,—and now cometh it to
you,—at an end is the moon’s love affair!

See there! Surprised and pale doth it stand—before the rosy dawn!

For already she cometh, the glowing one,—HER love to the earth cometh!
Innocence and creative desire, is all solar love!

See there, how she cometh impatiently over the sea! Do ye not feel the
thirst and the hot breath of her love?

At the sea would she suck, and drink its depths to her height: now
riseth the desire of the sea with its thousand breasts.

Kissed and sucked WOULD it be by the thirst of the sun; vapour WOULD it
become, and height, and path of light, and light itself!

Verily, like the sun do I love life, and all deep seas.

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

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXXVIII. SCHOLARS.

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 delight of the summer fields?

When they give themselves out as wise, then do their petty sayings and
truths chill me: in their wisdom there is often an odour as if it came
from the swamp; and verily, I have even heard the frog croak in it!

Clever are they—they have dexterous fingers: what doth MY simplicity
pretend to beside their multiplicity! All threading and knitting and
weaving do their fingers understand: thus do they make the hose of the
spirit!

Good clockworks are they: only be careful to wind them up properly!
Then do they indicate the hour without mistake, and make a modest noise
thereby.

Like millstones do they work, and like pestles: throw only seed-corn
unto them!—they know well how to grind corn small, and make white dust
out of it.

They keep a sharp eye on one another, and do not trust each other the
best. Ingenious in little artifices, they wait for those whose knowledge
walketh on lame feet,—like spiders do they wait.

I saw them always prepare their poison with precaution; and always did
they put glass gloves on their fingers in doing so.

They also know how to play with false dice; and so eagerly did I find
them playing, that they perspired thereby.

We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to
my taste than their falsehoods and false dice.

And when I lived with them, then did I live above them. Therefore did
they take a dislike to me.

They want to hear nothing of any one walking above their heads; and so
they put wood and earth and rubbish betwixt me and their heads.

Thus did they deafen the sound of my tread: and least have I hitherto
been heard by the most learned.

All mankind’s faults and weaknesses did they put betwixt themselves and
me:—they call it “false ceiling” in their houses.

But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts ABOVE their heads; and even
should I walk on mine own errors, still would I be above them and their
heads.

For men are NOT equal: so speaketh justice. And what I will, THEY may
not will!—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXXIX. POETS.

“Since I have known the body better”—said Zarathustra to one of his
disciples—“the spirit hath only been to me symbolically spirit; and all
the ‘imperishable’—that is also but a simile.”

“So have I heard thee say once before,” answered the disciple, “and then
thou addedst: ‘But the poets lie too much.’ Why didst thou say that the
poets lie too much?”

“Why?” said Zarathustra. “Thou askest why? I do not belong to those who
may be asked after their Why.

Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced the
reasons for mine opinions.

Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my
reasons with me?

It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a
bird flieth away.

And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which
is alien to me, and trembleth when I lay my hand upon it.

But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too
much?—But Zarathustra also is a poet.

Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it?”

The disciple answered: “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook
his head and smiled.—

Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself.

But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lie
too much: he was right—WE do lie too much.

We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie.

And which of us poets hath not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous
hotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing hath
there been done.

And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with
the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women!

And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one
another in the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us.

And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which CHOKETH
UP for those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in
their “wisdom.”

This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricketh up his ears
when lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learneth something of the
things that are betwixt heaven and earth.

And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always
think that nature herself is in love with them:

And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and
amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride 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-symbolisations,
poet-sophistications!

Verily, ever are we drawn aloft—that is, to the realm of the clouds:
on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them Gods and
Supermen:—

Are not they light enough for those chairs!—all these Gods and
Supermen?—

Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual!
Ah, how I am weary of the poets!

When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And
Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if
it gazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath.—

I am of to-day and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in me
that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter.

I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are
they all unto me, and shallow seas.

They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling
did not reach to the bottom.

Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these
have as yet been their best contemplation.

Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the
jingle-jangling of their harps; what have they known hitherto of the
fervour of tones!—

They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that
it may seem deep.

And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries
and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!—

Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish;
but always did I draw up the head of some ancient God.

Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may
well originate from the sea.

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

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

Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it 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 poets.

Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of
vanity!

Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet—should they even be
buffaloes!—

But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it
will become weary of itself.

Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards
themselves.

Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the
poets.—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XL. GREAT EVENTS.

There is an isle in the sea—not far from the Happy Isles of
Zarathustra—on which a volcano ever smoketh; of which isle the people,
and especially the old women amongst them, say that it is placed as a
rock before the gate of the nether-world; but that through the volcano
itself the narrow way leadeth downwards which conducteth to this gate.

Now about the time that Zarathustra sojourned on the Happy Isles, it
happened that a ship anchored at the isle on which standeth the smoking
mountain, 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 Zarathustra. His
disciples laughed, sure enough, at this talk; and one of them said even:
“Sooner would I believe that Zarathustra hath taken the devil.” But at
the bottom of their hearts they were all full of anxiety and longing: so
their joy was great when on the fifth day Zarathustra appeared amongst
them.

And this is the account of Zarathustra’s interview with the fire-dog:

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

And another of these diseases is called “the fire-dog”: 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
naked, verily! barefooted up to the neck.

Now do I know how it is concerning the fire-dog; and likewise concerning
all the spouting and subversive devils, of which not only old women are
afraid.

“Up with thee, fire-dog, out of thy depth!” cried I, “and confess how
deep that depth is! Whence cometh that which thou snortest up?

Thou drinkest copiously at the sea: that doth thine 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 subversive 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 sufficiently learned the art of making dregs boil.

Where ye are, there must always be dregs at hand, and much that is
spongy, hollow, and compressed: it wanteth to have freedom.

‘Freedom’ ye all roar most eagerly: but I have unlearned the belief in
‘great events,’ when there is much roaring and smoke about them.

And believe me, friend Hullabaloo! The greatest events—are not our
noisiest, but our stillest hours.

Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the 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
so?” And so much vapour and terrible voices came out of his throat, that
I thought he would choke with vexation and envy.

At last he became calmer and his panting subsided; as soon, however, as
he was quiet, 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 and hot dregs to him!

Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud; adverse is he to thy
gargling and spewing and grips in the bowels!

The gold, however, and the laughter—these doth he take out of the heart
of the earth: for, that thou mayst know it,—THE HEART OF THE EARTH IS
OF GOLD.”

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

Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however, hardly listened to him:
so great was their eagerness to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits,
and the flying man.

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

But it may have been my shadow. Ye have surely heard something of the
Wanderer and his Shadow?

One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a tighter hold of it;
otherwise it will spoil my reputation.”

And once more Zarathustra shook his head and wondered. “What am I to
think of it!” said he once more.

“Why did the ghost cry: ‘It is time! It is the highest time!’

_For what_ is it then—the highest time?”—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XLI. THE SOOTHSAYER.

“—And I saw a great sadness come over mankind. The best turned weary of
their works.

A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: ‘All is empty, all is alike,
all hath been!’

And from all hills there re-echoed: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all
hath been!’

To be sure we have harvested: but why have all our fruits become rotten
and brown? What was it fell last night from the evil moon?

In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye
hath singed yellow our fields and hearts.

Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust
like ashes:—yea, the fire itself have we made aweary.

All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded. All the
ground trieth to gape, but the depth will not swallow!

‘Alas! where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned?’ so
soundeth our plaint—across shallow swamps.

Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake
and live on—in sepulchres.”

Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak; and the foreboding touched
his heart and transformed 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!

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,
unwillingly was it awakened.

But more frightful even, and more heart-strangling was it, when it again
became silent and still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant
silence.

Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time there still was: what
do I know thereof! But at last there happened that which awoke me.

Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like thunders, thrice did the
vaults resound and howl again: then did I go to the gate.

Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who
carrieth his ashes unto the mountain?

And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself. But
not a finger’s-breadth was it yet open:

Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart: whistling, whizzing, and
piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin.

And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing the coffin burst up, and
spouted out a thousand peals of laughter.

And a thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and
child-sized butterflies laughed and mocked, and roared at me.

Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated me. And I cried with
horror as I ne’er cried before.

But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came to myself.—

Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then was silent: for as yet
he knew not the interpretation 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 the fortress of Death?

Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued malices and
angel-caricatures of life?

Verily, like a thousand peals of children’s laughter cometh
Zarathustra into all sepulchres, laughing at those night-watchmen and
grave-guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister keys.

With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and prostrate them: fainting and
recovering will demonstrate thy power over them.

And when the long twilight cometh and the mortal weariness, even then
wilt thou not disappear from our firmament, thou advocate of life!

New stars hast thou made us see, and new nocturnal glories: verily,
laughter itself hast thou spread out over us like a many-hued canopy.

Now will children’s laughter ever from coffins flow; now will a strong
wind ever come victoriously unto all mortal weariness: of this thou art
thyself the pledge and the prophet!

Verily, THEY THEMSELVES DIDST THOU DREAM, thine enemies: that was thy
sorest dream.

But as thou awokest from them and camest to thyself, so shall they
awaken from themselves—and come unto thee!”

Thus spake the disciple; and all the others then thronged around
Zarathustra, grasped him by the hands, and tried to persuade him to
leave his bed and his sadness, and return unto them. Zarathustra,
however, sat upright on his couch, with an absent look. Like one
returning from long foreign sojourn did he look on his disciples, and
examined their features; but still he knew them not. When, however, they
raised him, and set him upon his feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye
changed; he understood everything that had happened, stroked his beard,
and said with a strong voice:

“Well! this hath just its time; but see to it, my disciples, that we
have a good repast; and without delay! Thus do I mean to make amends for
bad dreams!

The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink at my side: and verily, I
will yet show him a sea in which he can drown himself!”—

Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long into the face of the
disciple who had been the dream-interpreter, and shook his head.—

XLII. REDEMPTION.

When Zarathustra went one day over the great bridge, then did the
cripples and beggars surround him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him:

“Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn from thee, and acquire faith
in thy teaching: but for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is
still needful—thou must first of all convince us cripples! Here hast
thou now a fine selection, and verily, an opportunity with more than one
forelock! The blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run; and from
him who hath too much behind, couldst thou well, also, take away a
little;—that, I think, would be the right method to make the cripples
believe in Zarathustra!”

Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him who so spake: When one
taketh his hump from the hunchback, then doth one take from him his
spirit—so do the people teach. And when one giveth the blind man eyes,
then doth he see too many bad things on the earth: so that he curseth
him who healed him. He, however, who maketh the lame man run, inflicteth
upon him the greatest injury; for hardly can he run, when his vices
run away with him—so do the people teach concerning cripples. And why
should not Zarathustra also learn from the people, when the people learn
from Zarathustra?

It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since I have been amongst
men, to see one person lacking an eye, another an ear, and a third a
leg, and that others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the head.

I see and have seen worse things, and divers things so hideous, that I
should neither like to speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about
some of them: namely, men who lack everything, except that they have
too much of one thing—men who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big
mouth, or a big belly, or something else big,—reversed cripples, I call
such men.

And when I came out of my 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
man! 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!

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 emancipator? Or a subjugator? A good
one? Or an evil one?

I walk amongst men as the fragments of the future: that future which I
contemplate.

And it is all my poetisation and aspiration to compose and collect into
unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful chance.

And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also the composer,
and riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance!

To redeem what is past, and to transform every “It was” into “Thus would
I have it!”—that only do I call redemption!

Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer called: thus have I taught
you, my friends! But now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a
prisoner.

Willing emancipateth: but what is that called which still putteth the
emancipator in chains?

“It was”: thus is the Will’s teeth-gnashing and lonesomest tribulation
called. Impotent towards what hath been done—it is a malicious
spectator of all that is past.

Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot break time and time’s
desire—that is the Will’s lonesomest tribulation.

Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself devise in order to get
free from its tribulation and mock at its prison?

Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly delivereth itself also the
imprisoned Will.

That time doth not run backward—that is its animosity: “That which
was”: so is the stone which it cannot roll called.

And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity and ill-humour, and taketh
revenge on whatever doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.

Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a torturer; and on all
that is capable of suffering it taketh revenge, because it cannot go
backward.

This, yea, this alone is REVENGE itself: the Will’s antipathy to time,
and its “It was.”

Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto
all humanity, that this folly acquired spirit!

THE SPIRIT OF REVENGE: my friends, that hath hitherto been man’s best
contemplation; and where there was suffering, it was claimed there was
always penalty.

“Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a
good conscience.

And because in the willer himself there is suffering, because he cannot
will backwards—thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be
penalty!

And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last
madness preached: “Everything perisheth, therefore everything deserveth
to perish!”

“And this itself is justice, the law of time—that he must devour his
children:” thus did madness preach.

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

“It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult—
especially for a babbler.”—

Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the
conversation and had covered his face during the time; but when he heard
Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity, and said slowly:

“But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto us than unto his
disciples?”

Zarathustra answered: “What is there to be wondered at! With hunchbacks
one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!”

“Very good,” said the hunchback; “and with pupils one may well tell
tales out of school.

But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto his pupils—than unto
himself?”—

XLIII. MANLY PRUDENCE.

Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible!

The declivity, where the gaze shooteth DOWNWARDS, and the hand graspeth
UPWARDS. There doth the heart become giddy through its double will.

Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart’s double will?

This, this is MY declivity and my danger, that my gaze shooteth towards
the summit, and my hand would fain clutch and lean—on the depth!

To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind myself to man, because
I am pulled upwards to the Superman: for thither doth mine other will
tend.

And THEREFORE do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not: that
my hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness.

I know not you men: this gloom and consolation is often spread around
me.

I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wisheth to deceive
me?

This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so
as not to be on my guard against deceivers.

Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how could man be an anchor to my
ball! Too easily would I be pulled upwards and away!

This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight.

And he who would not languish amongst men, must learn to drink out of
all glasses; and he who would keep clean amongst men, must know how to
wash himself even with dirty water.

And thus spake I often to myself for consolation: “Courage! Cheer up!
old heart! An unhappiness 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 groweth up something better than pride.

That life 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 themselves; 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 _I_?”

And if that be the true virtue which is unconscious of itself—well, the
vain man is unconscious of his modesty!—

This is, however, my third manly prudence: I am not put out of conceit
with the WICKED by your timorousness.

I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun hatcheth: tigers and palms
and 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 be 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, ye neighbours and fellowmen, and
well-attired and vain and estimable, as “the good and just;”—

And disguised will I myself sit amongst you—that I may MISTAKE you and
myself: for that is my last manly prudence.—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XLIV. THE STILLEST HOUR.

What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye see me troubled, driven
forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go—alas, to go away from YOU!

Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously
this time doth the bear go back to his cave!

What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth this?—Ah, mine angry mistress
wisheth it so; she spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to you?

Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me MY STILLEST HOUR: that is
the name of my terrible mistress.

And thus did it happen—for everything must I tell you, that your heart
may not harden against the suddenly departing one!

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

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

This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour did
the ground give way under me: the dream began.

The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath—never did
I hear such stillness around me, so that my heart was terrified.

Then was there spoken unto me without voice: “THOU KNOWEST IT,
ZARATHUSTRA?”—

And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face:
but I was silent.

Then was there once more spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest it,
Zarathustra, but thou dost not speak it!”—

And at last I answered, like one defiant: “Yea, I know it, but I will
not speak it!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou WILT not,
Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance!”—

And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: “Ah, I would indeed, but
how can I do it! Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my power!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about
thyself, Zarathustra! Speak thy word, and succumb!”

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! The dew falleth on the grass when the night is most silent.”—

And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in mine own