Message #33021

[VoraX]

58. The Great Longing

  O MY soul, I have taught thee to say "today" as "once on a time" and
"formerly," and to dance thy measure over every Here and There and
Yonder.
  O my soul, I delivered thee from all by-places, I brushed down
from thee dust and spiders and twilight.
  O my soul, I washed the petty shame and the by-place virtue from
thee, and persuaded thee to stand naked before the eyes of the sun.
  With the storm that is called "spirit" did I blow over thy surging
sea; all clouds did I blow away from it; I strangled even the
strangler called "sin."
  O my soul, I gave thee the right to say Nay like the storm, and to
say Yea as the open heaven saith Yea: calm as the light remainest
thou, and now walkest through denying storms.
  O my soul, I restored to thee liberty over the created and the
uncreated; and who knoweth, as thou knowest, the voluptuousness of the
future?
  O my soul, I taught thee the contempt which doth not come like
worm-eating, the great, the loving contempt, which loveth most where
it contemneth most.
  O my soul, I taught thee so to persuade that thou persuadest even
the grounds themselves to thee: like the sun, which persuadeth even
the sea to its height.
  O my soul, I have taken from thee all obeying and knee-bending and
homage-paying; I have myself given thee the names, "Change of need"
and "Fate."
  O my soul, I have given thee new names and gay-coloured
playthings, I have called thee "Fate" and "the Circuit of circuits"
and "the Navel-string of time" and "the Azure bell."
  O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom to drink all new wines,
and also all immemorially old strong wines of wisdom.
  O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every
silence and every longing:- then grewest thou up for me as a vine.
  O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine
with swelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes:-
  -Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from
superabundance, and yet ashamed of thy waiting.
  O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and
more comprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past
be closer together than with thee?
  O my soul, I have given thee everything, and all my hands have
become empty by thee:- and now! Now sayest thou to me, smiling and
full of melancholy: "Which of us oweth thanks?-
  -Doth the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Is
bestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not- pitying?"
  O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine
over-abundance itself now stretcheth out longing hands!
  Thy fulness looketh forth over raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth:
the longing of over-fulness looketh forth from the smiling heaven of
thine eyes!
  And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy smiling and not melt into
tears? The angels themselves melt into tears through the
over-graciousness of thy smiling.
  Thy graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not
complain and weep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for
tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs.
  "Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing?"
Thus speakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou
rather smile than pour forth thy grief-
  -Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy
fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and
vintage-knife!
  But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple
melancholy, then wilt thou have to sing, O my soul!- Behold, I smile
myself, who foretell thee this:
  -Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn
calm to hearken unto thy longing,-
  -Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel,
around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:-
  -Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light
marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths,-
  -Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master:
he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond
vintage-knife,-
  -Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one- for whom future
songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the
fragrance of future songs,-
  -Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest thou
thirstily at all deep echoing wells of consolation, already reposeth
thy melancholy in the bliss of future songs!- -
  O my soul, now have I given thee all, and even my last possession,
and all my hands have become empty by thee:- that I bade thee sing,
behold, that was my last thing to give!
  That I bade thee sing,- say now, say: which of us now- oweth
thanks?- Better still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my soul! And let
me thank thee!-

  Thus spake Zarathustra.