Thus Spake Zarathustra

[VoraX]

21. 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 ****.
  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.

[VoraX]

 22. 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 crossroads. 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 millennia- 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 today, 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.

[VoraX]

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."

              23. 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.

[VoraX]

24. 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.

[VoraX]

25. 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 on himself not to
abash: bashfulness doth he enjoin 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.

[VoraX]

26. 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.

[VoraX]

 27. 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.

[VoraX]

28. 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
todays: verily, badly smell all yesterdays and todays 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.

[VoraX]

29. The Tarantulas

  LO, THIS is the tarantula's den! Would'st thou see the tarantula
itself? Here hangeth its web: touch this, so that it may tremble.
  There cometh the tarantula willingly: Welcome, tarantula! Black on
thy back is thy triangle and symbol; and I know also what is in thy
soul.
  Revenge is in thy soul: wherever thou bitest, there ariseth black
scab; with revenge, thy poison maketh the soul giddy!
  Thus do I speak unto you in parable, ye who make the soul giddy,
ye preachers of equality! Tarantulas are ye unto me, and secretly
revengeful ones!
  But I will soon bring your hiding-places to the light: therefore
do I laugh in your face my laughter of the height.
  Therefore do I tear at your web, that your rage may lure you out
of your den of lies, and that your revenge may leap forth from
behind your word "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.

[VoraX]

 30. 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 alms-house 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.

[VoraX]

31. 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.

[VoraX]

32. 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 by 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.

[VoraX]

33. 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.

[VoraX]

34. 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.

[VoraX]

 35. 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 today, 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 plough-share: and his lowing should also laud all
that is earthly!
  Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand danceth upon
it. O'ershadowed is still the sense of his eye.
  His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscureth
the doer. Not yet hath he overcome his deed.
  To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want
to see also the eye of the 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 super-hero.-

  Thus spake Zarathustra.