Message #32998

[VoraX]

36. 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 paint-pots,"- said I.
  With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs- so sat ye there to
mine astonishment, ye present-day men!
  And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of
colours, and repeated it!
  Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your
own faces! Who could- recognise you!
  Written all over with the characters of the past, and these
characters also pencilled over with new characters- thus have ye
concealed yourselves well from all decipherers!
  And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that
ye have reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued
scraps.
  All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all
customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures.
  He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and
gestures, would just have enough left to scare the crows.
  Verily, I myself am the scared crow that once saw you naked, and
without paint; and I flew away when the skeleton ogled at me.
  Rather would I be a day-labourer in the nether-world, and among
the shades of the by-gone!- Fatter and fuller than ye, are forsooth
the nether-worldlings!
  This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither
endure you naked nor clothed, ye present-day men!
  All that is unhomelike in the future, and 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.