Thus Spake Zarathustra
by
Friedrich Nietzsche
Part 2 out of 8
that happen?
I change too quickly: my to-day refuteth my yesterday. I often overleap
the steps when I clamber; for so doing, none of the steps pardons me.
When aloft, I find myself always alone. No one speaketh unto me; the frost
of solitude maketh me tremble. What do I seek on the height?
My contempt and my longing increase together; the higher I clamber, the
more do I despise him who clambereth. What doth he seek on the height?
How ashamed I am of my clambering and stumbling! How I mock at my violent
panting! How I hate him who flieth! How tired I am on the height!"
Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside
which they stood, and spake thus:
"This tree standeth lonely here on the hills; it hath grown up high above
man and beast.
And if it wanted to speak, it would have none who could understand it: so
high hath it grown.
Now it waiteth and waiteth,--for what doth it wait? It dwelleth too close
to the seat of the clouds; it waiteth perhaps for the first lightning?"
When Zarathustra had said this, the youth called out with violent gestures:
"Yea, Zarathustra, thou speakest the truth. My destruction I longed for,
when I desired to be on the height, and thou art the lightning for which I
waited! Lo! what have I been since thou hast appeared amongst us? It is
mine envy of thee that hath destroyed me!"--Thus spake the youth, and wept
bitterly. Zarathustra, however, put his arm about him, and led the youth
away with him.
And when they had walked a while together, Zarathustra began to speak thus:
It rendeth my heart. Better than thy words express it, thine eyes tell me
all thy danger.
As yet thou art not free; thou still SEEKEST freedom. Too unslept hath thy
seeking made thee, and too wakeful.
On the open height wouldst thou be; for the stars thirsteth thy soul. But
thy bad impulses also thirst for freedom.
Thy wild dogs want liberty; they bark for joy in their cellar when thy
spirit endeavoureth to open all prison doors.
Still art thou a prisoner--it seemeth to me--who deviseth liberty for
himself: ah! sharp becometh the soul of such prisoners, but also deceitful
and wicked.
To purify himself, is still necessary for the freedman of the spirit. Much
of the prison and the mould still remaineth in him: pure hath his eye
still to become.
Yea, I know thy danger. But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not
thy love and hope away!
Noble thou feelest thyself still, and noble others also feel thee still,
though they bear thee a grudge and cast evil looks. Know this, that to
everybody a noble one standeth in the way.
Also to the good, a noble one standeth in the way: and even when they call
him a good man, they want thereby to put him aside.
The new, would the noble man create, and a new virtue. The old, wanteth
the good man, and that the old should be conserved.
But it is not the danger of the noble man to turn a good man, but lest he
should become a blusterer, a scoffer, or a destroyer.
Ah! I have known noble ones who lost their highest hope. And then they
disparaged all high hopes.
Then lived they shamelessly in temporary pleasures, and beyond the day had
hardly an aim.
"Spirit is also voluptuousness,"--said they. Then broke the wings of their
spirit; and now it creepeth about, and defileth where it gnaweth.
Once they thought of becoming heroes; but sensualists are they now. A
trouble and a terror is the hero to them.
But by my love and hope I conjure thee: cast not away the hero in thy
soul! Maintain holy thy highest hope!--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
IX. THE PREACHERS OF DEATH.
There are preachers of death: and the earth is full of those to whom
desistance from life must be preached.
Full is the earth of the superfluous; marred is life by the many-too-many.
May they be decoyed out of this life by the "life eternal"!
"The yellow ones": so are called the preachers of death, or "the black
ones." But I will show them unto you in other colours besides.
There are the terrible ones who carry about in themselves the beast of
prey, and have no choice except lusts or self-laceration. And even their
lusts are self-laceration.
They have not yet become men, those terrible ones: may they preach
desistance from life, and pass away themselves!
There are the spiritually consumptive ones: hardly are they born when they
begin to die, and long for doctrines of lassitude and renunciation.
They would fain be dead, and we should approve of their wish! Let us
beware of awakening those dead ones, and of damaging those living coffins!
They meet an invalid, or an old man, or a corpse--and immediately they say:
"Life is refuted!"
But they only are refuted, and their eye, which seeth only one aspect of
existence.
Shrouded in thick melancholy, and eager for the little casualties that
bring death: thus do they wait, and clench their teeth.
Or else, they grasp at sweetmeats, and mock at their childishness thereby:
they cling to their straw of life, and mock at their still clinging to it.
Their wisdom speaketh thus: "A fool, he who remaineth alive; but so far
are we fools! And that is the foolishest thing in life!"
"Life is only suffering": so say others, and lie not. Then see to it that
YE cease! See to it that the life ceaseth which is only suffering!
And let this be the teaching of your virtue: "Thou shalt slay thyself!
Thou shalt steal away from thyself!"--
"Lust is sin,"--so say some who preach death--"let us go apart and beget no
children!"
"Giving birth is troublesome,"--say others--"why still give birth? One
beareth only the unfortunate!" And they also are preachers of death.
"Pity is necessary,"--so saith a third party. "Take what I have! Take
what I am! So much less doth life bind me!"
Were they consistently pitiful, then would they make their neighbours sick
of life. To be wicked--that would be their true goodness.
But they want to be rid of life; what care they if they bind others still
faster with their chains and gifts!--
And ye also, to whom life is rough labour and disquiet, are ye not very
tired of life? Are ye not very ripe for the sermon of death?
All ye to whom rough labour is dear, and the rapid, new, and strange--ye
put up with yourselves badly; your diligence is flight, and the will to
self-forgetfulness.
If ye believed more in life, then would ye devote yourselves less to the
momentary. But for waiting, ye have not enough of capacity in you--nor
even for idling!
Everywhere resoundeth the voices of those who preach death; and the earth
is full of those to whom death hath to be preached.
Or "life eternal"; it is all the same to me--if only they pass away
quickly!--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
X. WAR AND WARRIORS.
By our best enemies we do not want to be spared, nor by those either whom
we love from the very heart. So let me tell you the truth!
My brethren in war! I love you from the very heart. I am, and was ever,
your counterpart. And I am also your best enemy. So let me tell you the
truth!
I know the hatred and envy of your hearts. Ye are not great enough not to
know of hatred and envy. Then be great enough not to be ashamed of them!
And if ye cannot be saints of knowledge, then, I pray you, be at least its
warriors. They are the companions and forerunners of such saintship.
I see many soldiers; could I but see many warriors! "Uniform" one calleth
what they wear; may it not be uniform what they therewith hide!
Ye shall be those whose eyes ever seek for an enemy--for YOUR enemy. And
with some of you there is hatred at first sight.
Your enemy shall ye seek; your war shall ye wage, and for the sake of your
thoughts! And if your thoughts succumb, your uprightness shall still shout
triumph thereby!
Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars--and the short peace more than
the long.
You I advise not to work, but to fight. You I advise not to peace, but to
victory. Let your work be a fight, let your peace be a victory!
One can only be silent and sit peacefully when one hath arrow and bow;
otherwise one prateth and quarrelleth. Let your peace be a victory!
Ye say it is the good cause which halloweth even war? I say unto you: it
is the good war which halloweth every cause.
War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your
sympathy, but your bravery hath hitherto saved the victims.
"What is good?" ye ask. To be brave is good. Let the little girls say:
"To be good is what is pretty, and at the same time touching."
They call you heartless: but your heart is true, and I love the
bashfulness of your goodwill. Ye are ashamed of your flow, and others are
ashamed of their ebb.
Ye are ugly? Well then, my brethren, take the sublime about you, the
mantle of the ugly!
And when your soul becometh great, then doth it become haughty, and in your
sublimity there is wickedness. I know you.
In wickedness the haughty man and the weakling meet. But they
misunderstand one another. I know you.
Ye shall only have enemies to be hated, but not enemies to be despised. Ye
must be proud of your enemies; then, the successes of your enemies are also
your successes.
Resistance--that is the distinction of the slave. Let your distinction be
obedience. Let your commanding itself be obeying!
To the good warrior soundeth "thou shalt" pleasanter than "I will." And
all that is dear unto you, ye shall first have it commanded unto you.
Let your love to life be love to your highest hope; and let your highest
hope be the highest thought of life!
Your highest thought, however, ye shall have it commanded unto you by me--
and it is this: man is something that is to be surpassed.
So live your life of obedience and of war! What matter about long life!
What warrior wisheth to be spared!
I spare you not, I love you from my very heart, my brethren in war!--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XI. THE NEW IDOL.
Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but not with us, my brethren:
here there are states.
A state? What is that? Well! open now your ears unto me, for now will I
say unto you my word concerning the death of peoples.
A state, is called the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly lieth it also;
and this lie creepeth from its mouth: "I, the state, am the people."
It is a lie! Creators were they who created peoples, and hung a faith and
a love over them: thus they served life.
Destroyers, are they who lay snares for many, and call it the state: they
hang a sword and a hundred cravings over them.
Where there is still a people, there the state is not understood, but hated
as the evil eye, and as sin against laws and customs.
This sign I give unto you: every people speaketh its language of good and
evil: this its neighbour understandeth not. Its language hath it devised
for itself in laws and customs.
But the state lieth in all languages of good and evil; and whatever it
saith it lieth; and whatever it hath it hath stolen.
False is everything in it; with stolen teeth it biteth, the biting one.
False are even its bowels.
Confusion of language of good and evil; this sign I give unto you as the
sign of the state. Verily, the will to death, indicateth this sign!
Verily, it beckoneth unto the preachers of death!
Many too many are born: for the superfluous ones was the state devised!
See just how it enticeth them to it, the many-too-many! How it swalloweth
and cheweth and recheweth them!
"On earth there is nothing greater than I: it is I who am the regulating
finger of God"--thus roareth the monster. And not only the long-eared and
short-sighted fall upon their knees!
Ah! even in your ears, ye great souls, it whispereth its gloomy lies! Ah!
it findeth out the rich hearts which willingly lavish themselves!
Yea, it findeth you out too, ye conquerors of the old God! Weary ye became
of the conflict, and now your weariness serveth the new idol!
Heroes and honourable ones, it would fain set up around it, the new idol!
Gladly it basketh in the sunshine of good consciences,--the cold monster!
Everything will it give YOU, if YE worship it, the new idol: thus it
purchaseth the lustre of your virtue, and the glance of your proud eyes.
It seeketh to allure by means of you, the many-too-many! Yea, a hellish
artifice hath here been devised, a death-horse jingling with the trappings
of divine honours!
Yea, a dying for many hath here been devised, which glorifieth itself as
life: verily, a hearty service unto all preachers of death!
The state, I call it, where all are poison-drinkers, the good and the bad:
the state, where all lose themselves, the good and the bad: the state,
where the slow suicide of all--is called "life."
Just see these superfluous ones! They steal the works of the inventors and
the treasures of the wise. Culture, they call their theft--and everything
becometh sickness and trouble unto them!
Just see these superfluous ones! Sick are they always; they vomit their
bile and call it a newspaper. They devour one another, and cannot even
digest themselves.
Just see these superfluous ones! Wealth they acquire and become poorer
thereby. Power they seek for, and above all, the lever of power, much
money--these impotent ones!
See them clamber, these nimble apes! They clamber over one another, and
thus scuffle into the mud and the abyss.
Towards the throne they all strive: it is their madness--as if happiness
sat on the throne! Ofttimes sitteth filth on the throne.--and ofttimes
also the throne on filth.
Madmen they all seem to me, and clambering apes, and too eager. Badly
smelleth their idol to me, the cold monster: badly they all smell to me,
these idolaters.
My brethren, will ye suffocate in the fumes of their maws and appetites!
Better break the windows and jump into the open air!
Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the idolatry of the
superfluous!
Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the steam of these
human sacrifices!
Open still remaineth the earth for great souls. Empty are still many sites
for lone ones and twain ones, around which floateth the odour of tranquil
seas.
Open still remaineth a free life for great souls. Verily, he who
possesseth little is so much the less possessed: blessed be moderate
poverty!
There, where the state ceaseth--there only commenceth the man who is not
superfluous: there commenceth the song of the necessary ones, the single
and irreplaceable melody.
There, where the state CEASETH--pray look thither, my brethren! Do ye not
see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the Superman?--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XII. THE FLIES IN THE MARKET-PLACE.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I see thee deafened with the noise of
the great men, and stung all over with the stings of the little ones.
Admirably do forest and rock know how to be silent with thee. Resemble
again the tree which thou lovest, the broad-branched one--silently and
attentively it o'erhangeth the sea.
Where solitude endeth, there beginneth the market-place; and where the
market-place beginneth, there beginneth also the noise of the great actors,
and the buzzing of the poison-flies.
In the world even the best things are worthless without those who represent
them: those representers, the people call great men.
Little do the people understand what is great--that is to say, the creating
agency. But they have a taste for all representers and actors of great
things.
Around the devisers of new values revolveth the world:--invisibly it
revolveth. But around the actors revolve the people and the glory: such
is the course of things.
Spirit, hath the actor, but little conscience of the spirit. He believeth
always in that wherewith he maketh believe most strongly--in HIMSELF!
Tomorrow he hath a new belief, and the day after, one still newer. Sharp
perceptions hath he, like the people, and changeable humours.
To upset--that meaneth with him to prove. To drive mad--that meaneth with
him to convince. And blood is counted by him as the best of all arguments.
A truth which only glideth into fine ears, he calleth falsehood and
trumpery. Verily, he believeth only in Gods that make a great noise in the
world!
Full of clattering buffoons is the market-place,--and the people glory in
their great men! These are for them the masters of the hour.
But the hour presseth them; so they press thee. And also from thee they
want Yea or Nay. Alas! thou wouldst set thy chair betwixt For and Against?
On account of those absolute and impatient ones, be not jealous, thou lover
of truth! Never yet did truth cling to the arm of an absolute one.
On account of those abrupt ones, return into thy security: only in the
market-place is one assailed by Yea? or Nay?
Slow is the experience of all deep fountains: long have they to wait until
they know WHAT hath fallen into their depths.
Away from the market-place and from fame taketh place all that is great:
away from the market-Place and from fame have ever dwelt the devisers of
new values.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude: I see thee stung all over by the
poisonous flies. Flee thither, where a rough, strong breeze bloweth!
Flee into thy solitude! Thou hast lived too closely to the small and the
pitiable. Flee from their invisible vengeance! Towards thee they have
nothing but vengeance.
Raise no longer an arm against them! Innumerable are they, and it is not
thy lot to be a fly-flap.
Innumerable are the small and pitiable ones; and of many a proud structure,
rain-drops and weeds have been the ruin.
Thou art not stone; but already hast thou become hollow by the numerous
drops. Thou wilt yet break and burst by the numerous drops.
Exhausted I see thee, by poisonous flies; bleeding I see thee, and torn at
a hundred spots; and thy pride will not even upbraid.
Blood they would have from thee in all innocence; blood their bloodless
souls crave for--and they sting, therefore, in all innocence.
But thou, profound one, thou sufferest too profoundly even from small
wounds; and ere thou hadst recovered, the same poison-worm crawled over thy
hand.
Too proud art thou to kill these sweet-tooths. But take care lest it be
thy fate to suffer all their poisonous injustice!
They buzz around thee also with their praise: obtrusiveness, is their
praise. They want to be close to thy skin and thy blood.
They flatter thee, as one flattereth a God or devil; they whimper before
thee, as before a God or devil. What doth it come to! Flatterers are
they, and whimperers, and nothing more.
Often, also, do they show themselves to thee as amiable ones. But that
hath ever been the prudence of the cowardly. Yea! the cowardly are wise!
They think much about thee with their circumscribed souls--thou art always
suspected by them! Whatever is much thought about is at last thought
suspicious.
They punish thee for all thy virtues. They pardon thee in their inmost
hearts only--for thine errors.
Because thou art gentle and of upright character, thou sayest: "Blameless
are they for their small existence." But their circumscribed souls think:
"Blamable is all great existence."
Even when thou art gentle towards them, they still feel themselves despised
by thee; and they repay thy beneficence with secret maleficence.
Thy silent pride is always counter to their taste; they rejoice if once
thou be humble enough to be frivolous.
What we recognise in a man, we also irritate in him. Therefore be on your
guard against the small ones!
In thy presence they feel themselves small, and their baseness gleameth and
gloweth against thee in invisible vengeance.
Sawest thou not how often they became dumb when thou approachedst them, and
how their energy left them like the smoke of an extinguishing fire?
Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art thou of thy neighbours; for they are
unworthy of thee. Therefore they hate thee, and would fain suck thy blood.
Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies; what is great in thee--that
itself must make them more poisonous, and always more fly-like.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude--and thither, where a rough strong
breeze bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XIII. CHASTITY.
I love the forest. It is bad to live in cities: there, there are too many
of the lustful.
Is it not better to fall into the hands of a murderer, than into the dreams
of a lustful woman?
And just look at these men: their eye saith it--they know nothing better
on earth than to lie with a woman.
Filth is at the bottom of their souls; and alas! if their filth hath still
spirit in it!
Would that ye were perfect--at least as animals! But to animals belongeth
innocence.
Do I counsel you to slay your instincts? I counsel you to innocence in
your instincts.
Do I counsel you to chastity? Chastity is a virtue with some, but with
many almost a vice.
These are continent, to be sure: but doggish lust looketh enviously out of
all that they do.
Even into the heights of their virtue and into their cold spirit doth this
creature follow them, with its discord.
And how nicely can doggish lust beg for a piece of spirit, when a piece of
flesh is denied it!
Ye love tragedies and all that breaketh the heart? But I am distrustful of
your doggish lust.
Ye have too cruel eyes, and ye look wantonly towards the sufferers. Hath
not your lust just disguised itself and taken the name of fellow-suffering?
And also this parable give I unto you: Not a few who meant to cast out
their devil, went thereby into the swine themselves.
To whom chastity is difficult, it is to be dissuaded: lest it become the
road to hell--to filth and lust of soul.
Do I speak of filthy things? That is not the worst thing for me to do.
Not when the truth is filthy, but when it is shallow, doth the discerning
one go unwillingly into its waters.
Verily, there are chaste ones from their very nature; they are gentler of
heart, and laugh better and oftener than you.
They laugh also at chastity, and ask: "What is chastity?
Is chastity not folly? But the folly came unto us, and not we unto it.
We offered that guest harbour and heart: now it dwelleth with us--let it
stay as long as it will!"--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XIV. THE FRIEND.
"One, is always too many about me"--thinketh the anchorite. "Always once
one--that maketh two in the long run!"
I and me are always too earnestly in conversation: how could it be
endured, if there were not a friend?
The friend of the anchorite is always the third one: the third one is the
cork which preventeth the conversation of the two sinking into the depth.
Ah! there are too many depths for all anchorites. Therefore, do they long
so much for a friend, and for his elevation.
Our faith in others betrayeth wherein we would fain have faith in
ourselves. Our longing for a friend is our betrayer.
And often with our love we want merely to overleap envy. And often we
attack and make ourselves enemies, to conceal that we are vulnerable.
"Be at least mine enemy!"--thus speaketh the true reverence, which doth not
venture to solicit friendship.
If one would have a friend, then must one also be willing to wage war for
him: and in order to wage war, one must be CAPABLE of being an enemy.
One ought still to honour the enemy in one's friend. Canst thou go nigh
unto thy friend, and not go over to him?
In one's friend one shall have one's best enemy. Thou shalt be closest
unto him with thy heart when thou withstandest him.
Thou wouldst wear no raiment before thy friend? It is in honour of thy
friend that thou showest thyself to him as thou art? But he wisheth thee
to the devil on that account!
He who maketh no secret of himself shocketh: so much reason have ye to
fear nakedness! Aye, if ye were Gods, ye could then be ashamed of
clothing!
Thou canst not adorn thyself fine enough for thy friend; for thou shalt be
unto him an arrow and a longing for the Superman.
Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep--to know how he looketh? What is
usually the countenance of thy friend? It is thine own countenance, in a
coarse and imperfect mirror.
Sawest thou ever thy friend asleep? Wert thou not dismayed at thy friend
looking so? O my friend, man is something that hath to be surpassed.
In divining and keeping silence shall the friend be a master: not
everything must thou wish to see. Thy dream shall disclose unto thee what
thy friend doeth when awake.
Let thy pity be a divining: to know first if thy friend wanteth pity.
Perhaps he loveth in thee the unmoved eye, and the look of eternity.
Let thy pity for thy friend be hid under a hard shell; thou shalt bite out
a tooth upon it. Thus will it have delicacy and sweetness.
Art thou pure air and solitude and bread and medicine to thy friend? Many
a one cannot loosen his own fetters, but is nevertheless his friend's
emancipator.
Art thou a slave? Then thou canst not be a friend. Art thou a tyrant?
Then thou canst not have friends.
Far too long hath there been a slave and a tyrant concealed in woman. On
that account woman is not yet capable of friendship: she knoweth only
love.
In woman's love there is injustice and blindness to all she doth not love.
And even in woman's conscious love, there is still always surprise and
lightning and night, along with the light.
As yet woman is not capable of friendship: women are still cats, and
birds. Or at the best, cows.
As yet woman is not capable of friendship. But tell me, ye men, who of you
are capable of friendship?
Oh! your poverty, ye men, and your sordidness of soul! As much as ye give
to your friend, will I give even to my foe, and will not have become poorer
thereby.
There is comradeship: may there be friendship!
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XV. THE THOUSAND AND ONE GOALS.
Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples: thus he discovered the good
and bad of many peoples. No greater power did Zarathustra find on earth
than good and bad.
No people could live without first valuing; if a people will maintain
itself, however, it must not value as its neighbour valueth.
Much that passed for good with one people was regarded with scorn and
contempt by another: thus I found it. Much found I here called bad, which
was there decked with purple honours.
Never did the one neighbour understand the other: ever did his soul marvel
at his neighbour's delusion and wickedness.
A table of excellencies hangeth over every people. Lo! it is the table of
their triumphs; lo! it is the voice of their Will to Power.
It is laudable, what they think hard; what is indispensable and hard they
call good; and what relieveth in the direst distress, the unique and
hardest of all,--they extol as holy.
Whatever maketh them rule and conquer and shine, to the dismay and envy of
their neighbours, they regard as the high and foremost thing, the test and
the meaning of all else.
Verily, my brother, if thou knewest but a people's need, its land, its sky,
and its neighbour, then wouldst thou divine the law of its surmountings,
and why it climbeth up that ladder to its hope.
"Always shalt thou be the foremost and prominent above others: no one
shall thy jealous soul love, except a friend"--that made the soul of a
Greek thrill: thereby went he his way to greatness.
"To speak truth, and be skilful with bow and arrow"--so seemed it alike
pleasing and hard to the people from whom cometh my name--the name which is
alike pleasing and hard to me.
"To honour father and mother, and from the root of the soul to do their
will"--this table of surmounting hung another people over them, and became
powerful and permanent thereby.
"To have fidelity, and for the sake of fidelity to risk honour and blood,
even in evil and dangerous courses"--teaching itself so, another people
mastered itself, and thus mastering itself, became pregnant and heavy with
great hopes.
Verily, men have given unto themselves all their good and bad. Verily,
they took it not, they found it not, it came not unto them as a voice from
heaven.
Values did man only assign to things in order to maintain himself--he
created only the significance of things, a human significance! Therefore,
calleth he himself "man," that is, the valuator.
Valuing is creating: hear it, ye creating ones! Valuation itself is the
treasure and jewel of the valued things.
Through valuation only is there value; and without valuation the nut of
existence would be hollow. Hear it, ye creating ones!
Change of values--that is, change of the creating ones. Always doth he
destroy who hath to be a creator.
Creating ones were first of all peoples, and only in late times
individuals; verily, the individual himself is still the latest creation.
Peoples once hung over them tables of the good. Love which would rule and
love which would obey, created for themselves such tables.
Older is the pleasure in the herd than the pleasure in the ego: and as
long as the good conscience is for the herd, the bad conscience only saith:
ego.
Verily, the crafty ego, the loveless one, that seeketh its advantage in the
advantage of many--it is not the origin of the herd, but its ruin.
Loving ones, was it always, and creating ones, that created good and bad.
Fire of love gloweth in the names of all the virtues, and fire of wrath.
Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many peoples: no greater power did
Zarathustra find on earth than the creations of the loving ones--"good" and
"bad" are they called.
Verily, a prodigy is this power of praising and blaming. Tell me, ye
brethren, who will master it for me? Who will put a fetter upon the
thousand necks of this animal?
A thousand goals have there been hitherto, for a thousand peoples have
there been. Only the fetter for the thousand necks is still lacking; there
is lacking the one goal. As yet humanity hath not a goal.
But pray tell me, my brethren, if the goal of humanity be still lacking, is
there not also still lacking--humanity itself?--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XVI. NEIGHBOUR-LOVE.
Ye crowd around your neighbour, and have fine words for it. But I say unto
you: your neighbour-love is your bad love of yourselves.
Ye flee unto your neighbour from yourselves, and would fain make a virtue
thereof: but I fathom your "unselfishness."
The THOU is older than the _I_; the THOU hath been consecrated, but not yet
the _I_: so man presseth nigh unto his neighbour.
Do I advise you to neighbour-love? Rather do I advise you to neighbour-
flight and to furthest love!
Higher than love to your neighbour is love to the furthest and future ones;
higher still than love to men, is love to things and phantoms.
The phantom that runneth on before thee, my brother, is fairer than thou;
why dost thou not give unto it thy flesh and thy bones? But thou fearest,
and runnest unto thy neighbour.
Ye cannot endure it with yourselves, and do not love yourselves
sufficiently: so ye seek to mislead your neighbour into love, and would
fain gild yourselves with his error.
Would that ye could not endure it with any kind of near ones, or their
neighbours; then would ye have to create your friend and his overflowing
heart out of yourselves.
Ye call in a witness when ye want to speak well of yourselves; and when ye
have misled him to think well of you, ye also think well of yourselves.
Not only doth he lie, who speaketh contrary to his knowledge, but more so,
he who speaketh contrary to his ignorance. And thus speak ye of yourselves
in your intercourse, and belie your neighbour with yourselves.
Thus saith the fool: "Association with men spoileth the character,
especially when one hath none."
The one goeth to his neighbour because he seeketh himself, and the other
because he would fain lose himself. Your bad love to yourselves maketh
solitude a prison to you.
The furthest ones are they who pay for your love to the near ones; and when
there are but five of you together, a sixth must always die.
I love not your festivals either: too many actors found I there, and even
the spectators often behaved like actors.
Not the neighbour do I teach you, but the friend. Let the friend be the
festival of the earth to you, and a foretaste of the Superman.
I teach you the friend and his overflowing heart. But one must know how to
be a sponge, if one would be loved by overflowing hearts.
I teach you the friend in whom the world standeth complete, a capsule of
the good,--the creating friend, who hath always a complete world to bestow.
And as the world unrolled itself for him, so rolleth it together again for
him in rings, as the growth of good through evil, as the growth of purpose
out of chance.
Let the future and the furthest be the motive of thy to-day; in thy friend
shalt thou love the Superman as thy motive.
My brethren, I advise you not to neighbour-love--I advise you to furthest
love!--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XVII. THE WAY OF THE CREATING ONE.
Wouldst thou go into isolation, my brother? Wouldst thou seek the way unto
thyself? Tarry yet a little and hearken unto me.
"He who seeketh may easily get lost himself. All isolation is wrong": so
say the herd. And long didst thou belong to the herd.
The voice of the herd will still echo in thee. And when thou sayest, "I
have no longer a conscience in common with you," then will it be a plaint
and a pain.
Lo, that pain itself did the same conscience produce; and the last gleam of
that conscience still gloweth on thine affliction.
But thou wouldst go the way of thine affliction, which is the way unto
thyself? Then show me thine authority and thy strength to do so!
Art thou a new strength and a new authority? A first motion? A self-
rolling wheel? Canst thou also compel stars to revolve around thee?
Alas! there is so much lusting for loftiness! There are so many
convulsions of the ambitions! Show me that thou art not a lusting and
ambitious one!
Alas! there are so many great thoughts that do nothing more than the
bellows: they inflate, and make emptier than ever.
Free, dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling thought would I hear of, and not
that thou hast escaped from a yoke.
Art thou one ENTITLED to escape from a yoke? Many a one hath cast away his
final worth when he hath cast away his servitude.
Free from what? What doth that matter to Zarathustra! Clearly, however,
shall thine eye show unto me: free FOR WHAT?
Canst thou give unto thyself thy bad and thy good, and set up thy will as a
law over thee? Canst thou be judge for thyself, and avenger of thy law?
Terrible is aloneness with the judge and avenger of one's own law. Thus is
a star projected into desert space, and into the icy breath of aloneness.
To-day sufferest thou still from the multitude, thou individual; to-day
hast thou still thy courage unabated, and thy hopes.
But one day will the solitude weary thee; one day will thy pride yield, and
thy courage quail. Thou wilt one day cry: "I am alone!"
One day wilt thou see no longer thy loftiness, and see too closely thy
lowliness; thy sublimity itself will frighten thee as a phantom. Thou wilt
one day cry: "All is false!"
There are feelings which seek to slay the lonesome one; if they do not
succeed, then must they themselves die! But art thou capable of it--to be
a murderer?
Hast thou ever known, my brother, the word "disdain"? And the anguish of
thy justice in being just to those that disdain thee?
Thou forcest many to think differently about thee; that, charge they
heavily to thine account. Thou camest nigh unto them, and yet wentest
past: for that they never forgive thee.
Thou goest beyond them: but the higher thou risest, the smaller doth the
eye of envy see thee. Most of all, however, is the flying one hated.
"How could ye be just unto me!"--must thou say--"I choose your injustice as
my allotted portion."
Injustice and filth cast they at the lonesome one: but, my brother, if
thou wouldst be a star, thou must shine for them none the less on that
account!
And be on thy guard against the good and just! They would fain crucify
those who devise their own virtue--they hate the lonesome ones.
Be on thy guard, also, against holy simplicity! All is unholy to it that
is not simple; fain, likewise, would it play with the fire--of the fagot
and stake.
And be on thy guard, also, against the assaults of thy love! Too readily
doth the recluse reach his hand to any one who meeteth him.
To many a one mayest thou not give thy hand, but only thy paw; and I wish
thy paw also to have claws.
But the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou thyself always be; thou
waylayest thyself in caverns and forests.
Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to thyself! And past thyself and thy
seven devils leadeth thy way!
A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard and a sooth-sayer, and a
fool, and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain.
Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own flame; how couldst thou
become new if thou have not first become ashes!
Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the creating one: a God wilt thou
create for thyself out of thy seven devils!
Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the loving one: thou lovest
thyself, and on that account despisest thou thyself, as only the loving
ones despise.
To create, desireth the loving one, because he despiseth! What knoweth he
of love who hath not been obliged to despise just what he loved!
With thy love, go into thine isolation, my brother, and with thy creating;
and late only will justice limp after thee.
With my tears, go into thine isolation, my brother. I love him who seeketh
to create beyond himself, and thus succumbeth.--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XVIII. OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN.
"Why stealest thou along so furtively in the twilight, Zarathustra? And
what hidest thou so carefully under thy mantle?
Is it a treasure that hath been given thee? Or a child that hath been born
thee? Or goest thou thyself on a thief's errand, thou friend of the
evil?"--
Verily, my brother, said Zarathustra, it is a treasure that hath been given
me: it is a little truth which I carry.
But it is naughty, like a young child; and if I hold not its mouth, it
screameth too loudly.
As I went on my way alone to-day, at the hour when the sun declineth, there
met me an old woman, and she spake thus unto my soul:
"Much hath Zarathustra spoken also to us women, but never spake he unto us
concerning woman."
And I answered her: "Concerning woman, one should only talk unto men."
"Talk also unto me of woman," said she; "I am old enough to forget it
presently."
And I obliged the old woman and spake thus unto her:
Everything in woman is a riddle, and everything in woman hath one solution
--it is called pregnancy.
Man is for woman a means: the purpose is always the child. But what is
woman for man?
Two different things wanteth the true man: danger and diversion.
Therefore wanteth he woman, as the most dangerous plaything.
Man shall be trained for war, and woman for the recreation of the warrior:
all else is folly.
Too sweet fruits--these the warrior liketh not. Therefore liketh he
woman;--bitter is even the sweetest woman.
Better than man doth woman understand children, but man is more childish
than woman.
In the true man there is a child hidden: it wanteth to play. Up then, ye
women, and discover the child in man!
A plaything let woman be, pure and fine like the precious stone, illumined
with the virtues of a world not yet come.
Let the beam of a star shine in your love! Let your hope say: "May I bear
the Superman!"
In your love let there be valour! With your love shall ye assail him who
inspireth you with fear!
In your love be your honour! Little doth woman understand otherwise about
honour. But let this be your honour: always to love more than ye are
loved, and never be the second.
Let man fear woman when she loveth: then maketh she every sacrifice, and
everything else she regardeth as worthless.
Let man fear woman when she hateth: for man in his innermost soul is
merely evil; woman, however, is mean.
Whom hateth woman most?--Thus spake the iron to the loadstone: "I hate
thee most, because thou attractest, but art too weak to draw unto thee."
The happiness of man is, "I will." The happiness of woman is, "He will."
"Lo! now hath the world become perfect!"--thus thinketh every woman when
she obeyeth with all her love.
Obey, must the woman, and find a depth for her surface. Surface, is
woman's soul, a mobile, stormy film on shallow water.
Man's soul, however, is deep, its current gusheth in subterranean caverns:
woman surmiseth its force, but comprehendeth it not.--
Then answered me the old woman: "Many fine things hath Zarathustra said,
especially for those who are young enough for them.
Strange! Zarathustra knoweth little about woman, and yet he is right about
them! Doth this happen, because with women nothing is impossible?
And now accept a little truth by way of thanks! I am old enough for it!
Swaddle it up and hold its mouth: otherwise it will scream too loudly, the
little truth."
"Give me, woman, thy little truth!" said I. And thus spake the old woman:
"Thou goest to women? Do not forget thy whip!"--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XIX. THE BITE OF THE ADDER.
One day had Zarathustra fallen asleep under a fig-tree, owing to the heat,
with his arms over his face. And there came an adder and bit him in the
neck, so that Zarathustra screamed with pain. When he had taken his arm
from his face he looked at the serpent; and then did it recognise the eyes
of Zarathustra, wriggled awkwardly, and tried to get away. "Not at all,"
said Zarathustra, "as yet hast thou not received my thanks! Thou hast
awakened me in time; my journey is yet long." "Thy journey is short," said
the adder sadly; "my poison is fatal." Zarathustra smiled. "When did ever
a dragon die of a serpent's poison?"--said he. "But take thy poison back!
Thou art not rich enough to present it to me." Then fell the adder again
on his neck, and licked his wound.
When Zarathustra once told this to his disciples they asked him: "And
what, O Zarathustra, is the moral of thy story?" And Zarathustra answered
them thus:
The destroyer of morality, the good and just call me: my story is immoral.
When, however, ye have an enemy, then return him not good for evil: for
that would abash him. But prove that he hath done something good to you.
And rather be angry than abash any one! And when ye are cursed, it
pleaseth me not that ye should then desire to bless. Rather curse a little
also!
And should a great injustice befall you, then do quickly five small ones
besides. Hideous to behold is he on whom injustice presseth alone.
Did ye ever know this? Shared injustice is half justice. And he who can
bear it, shall take the injustice upon himself!
A small revenge is humaner than no revenge at all. And if the punishment
be not also a right and an honour to the transgressor, I do not like your
punishing.
Nobler is it to own oneself in the wrong than to establish one's right,
especially if one be in the right. Only, one must be rich enough to do so.
I do not like your cold justice; out of the eye of your judges there always
glanceth the executioner and his cold steel.
Tell me: where find we justice, which is love with seeing eyes?
Devise me, then, the love which not only beareth all punishment, but also
all guilt!
Devise me, then, the justice which acquitteth every one except the judge!
And would ye hear this likewise? To him who seeketh to be just from the
heart, even the lie becometh philanthropy.
But how could I be just from the heart! How can I give every one his own!
Let this be enough for me: I give unto every one mine own.
Finally, my brethren, guard against doing wrong to any anchorite. How
could an anchorite forget! How could he requite!
Like a deep well is an anchorite. Easy is it to throw in a stone: if it
should sink to the bottom, however, tell me, who will bring it out again?
Guard against injuring the anchorite! If ye have done so, however, well
then, kill him also!--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XX. CHILD AND MARRIAGE.
I have a question for thee alone, my brother: like a sounding-lead, cast I
this question into thy soul, that I may know its depth.
Thou art young, and desirest child and marriage. But I ask thee: Art thou
a man ENTITLED to desire a child?
Art thou the victorious one, the self-conqueror, the ruler of thy passions,
the master of thy virtues? Thus do I ask thee.
Or doth the animal speak in thy wish, and necessity? Or isolation? Or
discord in thee?
I would have thy victory and freedom long for a child. Living monuments
shalt thou build to thy victory and emancipation.
Beyond thyself shalt thou build. But first of all must thou be built
thyself, rectangular in body and soul.
Not only onward shalt thou propagate thyself, but upward! For that purpose
may the garden of marriage help thee!
A higher body shalt thou create, a first movement, a spontaneously rolling
wheel--a creating one shalt thou create.
Marriage: so call I the will of the twain to create the one that is more
than those who created it. The reverence for one another, as those
exercising such a will, call I marriage.
Let this be the significance and the truth of thy marriage. But that which
the many-too-many call marriage, those superfluous ones--ah, what shall I
call it?
Ah, the poverty of soul in the twain! Ah, the filth of soul in the twain!
Ah, the pitiable self-complacency in the twain!
Marriage they call it all; and they say their marriages are made in heaven.
Well, I do not like it, that heaven of the superfluous! No, I do not like
them, those animals tangled in the heavenly toils!
Far from me also be the God who limpeth thither to bless what he hath not
matched!
Laugh not at such marriages! What child hath not had reason to weep over
its parents?
Worthy did this man seem, and ripe for the meaning of the earth: but when
I saw his wife, the earth seemed to me a home for madcaps.
Yea, I would that the earth shook with convulsions when a saint and a goose
mate with one another.
This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero, and at last got for
himself a small decked-up lie: his marriage he calleth it.
That one was reserved in intercourse and chose choicely. But one time he
spoilt his company for all time: his marriage he calleth it.
Another sought a handmaid with the virtues of an angel. But all at once he
became the handmaid of a woman, and now would he need also to become an
angel.
Careful, have I found all buyers, and all of them have astute eyes. But
even the astutest of them buyeth his wife in a sack.
Many short follies--that is called love by you. And your marriage putteth
an end to many short follies, with one long stupidity.
Your love to woman, and woman's love to man--ah, would that it were
sympathy for suffering and veiled deities! But generally two animals
alight on one another.
But even your best love is only an enraptured simile and a painful ardour.
It is a torch to light you to loftier paths.
Beyond yourselves shall ye love some day! Then LEARN first of all to love.
And on that account ye had to drink the bitter cup of your love.
Bitterness is in the cup even of the best love: thus doth it cause longing
for the Superman; thus doth it cause thirst in thee, the creating one!
Thirst in the creating one, arrow and longing for the Superman: tell me,
my brother, is this thy will to marriage?
Holy call I such a will, and such a marriage.--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXI. VOLUNTARY DEATH.
Many die too late, and some die too early. Yet strange soundeth the
precept: "Die at the right time!
Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra.
To be sure, he who never liveth at the right time, how could he ever die at
the right time? Would that he might never be born!--Thus do I advise the
superfluous ones.
But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even the
hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked.
Every one regardeth dying as a great matter: but as yet death is not a
festival. Not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals.
The consummating death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and
promise to the living.
His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping
and promising ones.
Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no festival at which such
a dying one doth not consecrate the oaths of the living!
Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is to die in battle, and
sacrifice a great soul.
But to the fighter equally hateful as to the victor, is your grinning death
which stealeth nigh like a thief,--and yet cometh as master.
My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary death, which cometh unto me
because _I_ want it.
And when shall I want it?--He that hath a goal and an heir, wanteth death
at the right time for the goal and the heir.
And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no more
withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life.
Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord,
and thereby go ever backward.
Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless
mouth hath no longer the right to every truth.
And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and
practise the difficult art of--going at the right time.
One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is
known by those who want to be long loved.
Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last day of
autumn: and at the same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.
In some ageth the heart first, and in others the spirit. And some are
hoary in youth, but the late young keep long young.
To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm gnaweth at their heart. Then
let them see to it that their dying is all the more a success.
Many never become sweet; they rot even in the summer. It is cowardice that
holdeth them fast to their branches.
Far too many live, and far too long hang they on their branches. Would
that a storm came and shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from the
tree!
Would that there came preachers of SPEEDY death! Those would be the
appropriate storms and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only
slow death preached, and patience with all that is "earthly."
Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that hath
too much patience with you, ye blasphemers!
Verily, too early died that Hebrew whom the preachers of slow death honour:
and to many hath it proved a calamity that he died too early.
As yet had he known only tears, and the melancholy of the Hebrews, together
with the hatred of the good and just--the Hebrew Jesus: then was he seized
with the longing for death.
Had he but remained in the wilderness, and far from the good and just!
Then, perhaps, would he have learned to live, and love the earth--and
laughter also!
Believe it, my brethren! He died too early; he himself would have
disavowed his doctrine had he attained to my age! Noble enough was he to
disavow!
But he was still immature. Immaturely loveth the youth, and immaturely
also hateth he man and earth. Confined and awkward are still his soul and
the wings of his spirit.
But in man there is more of the child than in the youth, and less of
melancholy: better understandeth he about life and death.
Free for death, and free in death; a holy Naysayer, when there is no longer
time for Yea: thus understandeth he about death and life.
That your dying may not be a reproach to man and the earth, my friends:
that do I solicit from the honey of your soul.
In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still shine like an evening
after-glow around the earth: otherwise your dying hath been
unsatisfactory.
Thus will I die myself, that ye friends may love the earth more for my
sake; and earth will I again become, to have rest in her that bore me.
Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw his ball. Now be ye friends the
heirs of my goal; to you throw I the golden ball.
Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the golden ball! And so tarry
I still a little while on the earth--pardon me for it!
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXII. THE BESTOWING VIRTUE.
1.
When Zarathustra had taken leave of the town to which his heart was
attached, the name of which is "The Pied Cow," there followed him many
people who called themselves his disciples, and kept him company. Thus
came they to a crossroad. Then Zarathustra told them that he now wanted to
go alone; for he was fond of going alone. His disciples, however,
presented him at his departure with a staff, on the golden handle of which
a serpent twined round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on account of the
staff, and supported himself thereon; then spake he thus to his disciples:
Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is
uncommon, and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always
bestoweth itself.
Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to the highest value.
Goldlike, beameth the glance of the bestower. Gold-lustre maketh peace
between moon and sun.
Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting, beaming is it, and soft of
lustre: a bestowing virtue is the highest virtue.
Verily, I divine you well, my disciples: ye strive like me for the
bestowing virtue. What should ye have in common with cats and wolves?
It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts yourselves: and therefore
have ye the thirst to accumulate all riches in your soul.
Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels, because your virtue
is insatiable in desiring to bestow.
Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and into you, so that they
shall flow back again out of your fountain as the gifts of your love.
Verily, an appropriator of all values must such bestowing love become; but
healthy and holy, call I this selfishness.--
Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and hungry kind, which would
always steal--the selfishness of the sick, the sickly selfishness.
With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that is lustrous; with the
craving of hunger it measureth him who hath abundance; and ever doth it
prowl round the tables of bestowers.
Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible degeneration; of a sickly
body, speaketh the larcenous craving of this selfishness.
Tell me, my brother, what do we think bad, and worst of all? Is it not
DEGENERATION?--And we always suspect degeneration when the bestowing soul
is lacking.
Upward goeth our course from genera on to super-genera. But a horror to us
is the degenerating sense, which saith: "All for myself."
Upward soareth our sense: thus is it a simile of our body, a simile of an
elevation. Such similes of elevations are the names of the virtues.
Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer and fighter. And the
spirit--what is it to the body? Its fights' and victories' herald, its
companion and echo.
Similes, are all names of good and evil; they do not speak out, they only
hint. A fool who seeketh knowledge from them!
Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your spirit would speak in
similes: there is the origin of your virtue.
Elevated is then your body, and raised up; with its delight, enraptureth it
the spirit; so that it becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and
everything's benefactor.
When your heart overfloweth broad and full like the river, a blessing and a
danger to the lowlanders: there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are exalted above praise and blame, and your will would command all
things, as a loving one's will: there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye despise pleasant things, and the effeminate couch, and cannot couch
far enough from the effeminate: there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are willers of one will, and when that change of every need is
needful to you: there is the origin of your virtue.
Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily, a new deep murmuring, and the
voice of a new fountain!
Power is it, this new virtue; a ruling thought is it, and around it a
subtle soul: a golden sun, with the serpent of knowledge around it.
2.
Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked lovingly on his disciples. Then
he continued to speak thus--and his voice had changed:
Remain true to the earth, my brethren, with the power of your virtue! Let
your bestowing love and your knowledge be devoted to be the meaning of the
earth! Thus do I pray and conjure you.
Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat against eternal walls with
its wings! Ah, there hath always been so much flown-away virtue!
Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue back to the earth--yea, back to body
and life: that it may give to the earth its meaning, a human meaning!
A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as virtue flown away and
blundered. Alas! in our body dwelleth still all this delusion and
blundering: body and will hath it there become.
A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as virtue attempted and erred.
Yea, an attempt hath man been. Alas, much ignorance and error hath become
embodied in us!
Not only the rationality of millenniums--also their madness, breaketh out
in us. Dangerous is it to be an heir.
Still fight we step by step with the giant Chance, and over all mankind
hath hitherto ruled nonsense, the lack-of-sense.
Let your spirit and your virtue be devoted to the sense of the earth, my
brethren: let the value of everything be determined anew by you!
Therefore shall ye be fighters! Therefore shall ye be creators!
Intelligently doth the body purify itself; attempting with intelligence it
exalteth itself; to the discerners all impulses sanctify themselves; to the
exalted the soul becometh joyful.
Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also heal thy patient. Let it be
his best cure to see with his eyes him who maketh himself whole.
A thousand paths are there which have never yet been trodden; a thousand
salubrities and hidden islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is
still man and man's world.
Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From the future come winds with
stealthy pinions, and to fine ears good tidings are proclaimed.
Ye lonesome ones of to-day, ye seceding ones, ye shall one day be a people:
out of you who have chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people arise:--and
out of it the Superman.
Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become! And already is a new
odour diffused around it, a salvation-bringing odour--and a new hope!
3.
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he paused, like one who had not
said his last word; and long did he balance the staff doubtfully in his
hand. At last he spake thus--and his voice had changed:
I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go away, and alone! So will I
have it.
Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against
Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath
deceived you.
The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but also to
hate his friends.
One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar. And why will
ye not pluck at my wreath?
Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration should some day collapse? Take
heed lest a statue crush you!
Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account is Zarathustra! Ye
are my believers: but of what account are all believers!
Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all
believers; therefore all belief is of so little account.
Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all
denied me, will I return unto you.
Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; with
another love shall I then love you.
And once again shall ye have become friends unto me, and children of one
hope: then will I be with you for the third time, to celebrate the great
noontide with you.
And it is the great noontide, when man is in the middle of his course
between animal and Superman, and celebrateth his advance to the evening as
his highest hope: for it is the advance to a new morning.
At such time will the down-goer bless himself, that he should be an over-
goer; and the sun of his knowledge will be at noontide.
"DEAD ARE ALL THE GODS: NOW DO WE DESIRE THE SUPERMAN TO LIVE."--Let this
be our final will at the great noontide!--
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 fullness 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!--
Back to Full Books
|