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Thus Spake Zarathustra

F >> Friedrich Nietzsche >> Thus Spake Zarathustra




--Who was ashamed of his riches and of the rich, and fled to the poorest to
bestow upon them his abundance and his heart? But they received him not."

"But they received me not," said the voluntary beggar, "thou knowest it,
forsooth. So I went at last to the animals and to those kine."

"Then learnedst thou," interrupted Zarathustra, "how much harder it is to
give properly than to take properly, and that bestowing well is an ART--the
last, subtlest master-art of kindness."

"Especially nowadays," answered the voluntary beggar: "at present, that is
to say, when everything low hath become rebellious and exclusive and
haughty in its manner--in the manner of the populace.

For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth, for the great, evil,
long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth!

Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all benevolence and petty giving;
and the overrich may be on their guard!

Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out of all-too-small necks:--of
such bottles at present one willingly breaketh the necks.

Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge, populace-pride: all these
struck mine eye. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed. The
kingdom of heaven, however, is with the kine."

"And why is it not with the rich?" asked Zarathustra temptingly, while he
kept back the kine which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one.

"Why dost thou tempt me?" answered the other. "Thou knowest it thyself
better even than I. What was it drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra?
Was it not my disgust at the richest?

--At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and rank thoughts, who pick up
profit out of all kinds of rubbish--at this rabble that stinketh to heaven,

--At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers were pickpockets, or
carrion-crows, or rag-pickers, with wives compliant, lewd and forgetful:--
for they are all of them not far different from harlots--

Populace above, populace below! What are 'poor' and 'rich' at present!
That distinction did I unlearn,--then did I flee away further and ever
further, until I came to those kine."

Thus spake the peaceful one, and puffed himself and perspired with his
words: so that the kine wondered anew. Zarathustra, however, kept looking
into his face with a smile, all the time the man talked so severely--and
shook silently his head.

"Thou doest violence to thyself, thou Preacher-on-the-Mount, when thou
usest such severe words. For such severity neither thy mouth nor thine eye
have been given thee.

Nor, methinketh, hath thy stomach either: unto IT all such rage and hatred
and foaming-over is repugnant. Thy stomach wanteth softer things: thou
art not a butcher.

Rather seemest thou to me a plant-eater and a root-man. Perhaps thou
grindest corn. Certainly, however, thou art averse to fleshly joys, and
thou lovest honey."

"Thou hast divined me well," answered the voluntary beggar, with lightened
heart. "I love honey, I also grind corn; for I have sought out what
tasteth sweetly and maketh pure breath:

--Also what requireth a long time, a day's-work and a mouth's-work for
gentle idlers and sluggards.

Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it: they have devised
ruminating and lying in the sun. They also abstain from all heavy thoughts
which inflate the heart."

--"Well!" said Zarathustra, "thou shouldst also see MINE animals, mine
eagle and my serpent,--their like do not at present exist on earth.

Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave: be to-night its guest. And
talk to mine animals of the happiness of animals,--

--Until I myself come home. For now a cry of distress calleth me hastily
away from thee. Also, shouldst thou find new honey with me, ice-cold,
golden-comb-honey, eat it!

Now, however, take leave at once of thy kine, thou strange one! thou
amiable one! though it be hard for thee. For they are thy warmest friends
and preceptors!"--

--"One excepted, whom I hold still dearer," answered the voluntary beggar.
"Thou thyself art good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a cow!"

"Away, away with thee! thou evil flatterer!" cried Zarathustra
mischievously, "why dost thou spoil me with such praise and flattery-honey?

"Away, away from me!" cried he once more, and heaved his stick at the fond
beggar, who, however, ran nimbly away.


LXIX. THE SHADOW.

Scarcely however was the voluntary beggar gone in haste, and Zarathustra
again alone, when he heard behind him a new voice which called out: "Stay!
Zarathustra! Do wait! It is myself, forsooth, O Zarathustra, myself, thy
shadow!" But Zarathustra did not wait; for a sudden irritation came over
him on account of the crowd and the crowding in his mountains. "Whither
hath my lonesomeness gone?" spake he.

"It is verily becoming too much for me; these mountains swarm; my kingdom
is no longer of THIS world; I require new mountains.

My shadow calleth me? What matter about my shadow! Let it run after me!
I--run away from it."

Thus spake Zarathustra to his heart and ran away. But the one behind
followed after him, so that immediately there were three runners, one after
the other--namely, foremost the voluntary beggar, then Zarathustra, and
thirdly, and hindmost, his shadow. But not long had they run thus when
Zarathustra became conscious of his folly, and shook off with one jerk all
his irritation and detestation.

"What!" said he, "have not the most ludicrous things always happened to us
old anchorites and saints?

Verily, my folly hath grown big in the mountains! Now do I hear six old
fools' legs rattling behind one another!

But doth Zarathustra need to be frightened by his shadow? Also, methinketh
that after all it hath longer legs than mine."

Thus spake Zarathustra, and, laughing with eyes and entrails, he stood
still and turned round quickly--and behold, he almost thereby threw his
shadow and follower to the ground, so closely had the latter followed at
his heels, and so weak was he. For when Zarathustra scrutinised him with
his glance he was frightened as by a sudden apparition, so slender,
swarthy, hollow and worn-out did this follower appear.

"Who art thou?" asked Zarathustra vehemently, "what doest thou here? And
why callest thou thyself my shadow? Thou art not pleasing unto me."

"Forgive me," answered the shadow, "that it is I; and if I please thee not
--well, O Zarathustra! therein do I admire thee and thy good taste.

A wanderer am I, who have walked long at thy heels; always on the way, but
without a goal, also without a home: so that verily, I lack little of
being the eternally Wandering Jew, except that I am not eternal and not a
Jew.

What? Must I ever be on the way? Whirled by every wind, unsettled, driven
about? O earth, thou hast become too round for me!

On every surface have I already sat, like tired dust have I fallen asleep
on mirrors and window-panes: everything taketh from me, nothing giveth; I
become thin--I am almost equal to a shadow.

After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and hie longest; and though I
hid myself from thee, I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou
hast sat, there sat I also.

With thee have I wandered about in the remotest, coldest worlds, like a
phantom that voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.

With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden, all the worst and the
furthest: and if there be anything of virtue in me, it is that I have had
no fear of any prohibition.

With thee have I broken up whatever my heart revered; all boundary-stones
and statues have I o'erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I pursue,--
verily, beyond every crime did I once go.

With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and worths and in great names.
When the devil casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away? It is
also skin. The devil himself is perhaps--skin.

'Nothing is true, all is permitted': so said I to myself. Into the
coldest water did I plunge with head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand
there naked on that account, like a red crab!

Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my shame and all my belief in
the good! Ah, where is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the
innocence of the good and of their noble lies!

Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of truth: then did it
kick me on the face. Sometimes I meant to lie, and behold! then only did I
hit--the truth.

Too much hath become clear unto me: now it doth not concern me any more.
Nothing liveth any longer that I love,--how should I still love myself?

'To live as I incline, or not to live at all': so do I wish; so wisheth
also the holiest. But alas! how have _I_ still--inclination?

Have _I_--still a goal? A haven towards which MY sail is set?

A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth WHITHER he saileth, knoweth what wind
is good, and a fair wind for him.

What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an unstable will;
fluttering wings; a broken backbone.

This seeking for MY home: O Zarathustra, dost thou know that this seeking
hath been MY home-sickening; it eateth me up.

'WHERE is--MY home?' For it do I ask and seek, and have sought, but have
not found it. O eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal--in-
vain!"

Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's countenance lengthened at his
words. "Thou art my shadow!" said he at last sadly.

"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and wanderer! Thou hast had a
bad day: see that a still worse evening doth not overtake thee!

To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last even a prisoner blessed.
Didst thou ever see how captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they
enjoy their new security.

Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture thee, a hard, rigorous
delusion! For now everything that is narrow and fixed seduceth and
tempteth thee.

Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas, how wilt thou forego and forget that loss?
Thereby--hast thou also lost thy way!

Thou poor rover and rambler, thou tired butterfly! wilt thou have a rest
and a home this evening? Then go up to my cave!

Thither leadeth the way to my cave. And now will I run quickly away from
thee again. Already lieth as it were a shadow upon me.

I will run alone, so that it may again become bright around me. Therefore
must I still be a long time merrily upon my legs. In the evening, however,
there will be--dancing with me!"--

Thus spake Zarathustra.


LXX. NOONTIDE.

--And Zarathustra ran and ran, but he found no one else, and was alone and
ever found himself again; he enjoyed and quaffed his solitude, and thought
of good things--for hours. About the hour of noontide, however, when the
sun stood exactly over Zarathustra's head, he passed an old, bent and
gnarled tree, which was encircled round by the ardent love of a vine, and
hidden from itself; from this there hung yellow grapes in abundance,
confronting the wanderer. Then he felt inclined to quench a little thirst,
and to break off for himself a cluster of grapes. When, however, he had
already his arm out-stretched for that purpose, he felt still more inclined
for something else--namely, to lie down beside the tree at the hour of
perfect noontide and sleep.

This Zarathustra did; and no sooner had he laid himself on the ground in
the stillness and secrecy of the variegated grass, than he had forgotten
his little thirst, and fell asleep. For as the proverb of Zarathustra
saith: "One thing is more necessary than the other." Only that his eyes
remained open:--for they never grew weary of viewing and admiring the tree
and the love of the vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra spake
thus to his heart:

"Hush! Hush! Hath not the world now become perfect? What hath happened
unto me?

As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon parqueted seas, light, feather-
light, so--danceth sleep upon me.

No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul awake. Light is it, verily,
feather-light.

It persuadeth me, I know not how, it toucheth me inwardly with a caressing
hand, it constraineth me. Yea, it constraineth me, so that my soul
stretcheth itself out:--

--How long and weary it becometh, my strange soul! Hath a seventh-day
evening come to it precisely at noontide? Hath it already wandered too
long, blissfully, among good and ripe things?

It stretcheth itself out, long--longer! it lieth still, my strange soul.
Too many good things hath it already tasted; this golden sadness oppresseth
it, it distorteth its mouth.

--As a ship that putteth into the calmest cove:--it now draweth up to the
land, weary of long voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more
faithful?

As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the shore:--then it sufficeth for
a spider to spin its thread from the ship to the land. No stronger ropes
are required there.

As such a weary ship in the calmest cove, so do I also now repose, nigh to
the earth, faithful, trusting, waiting, bound to it with the lightest
threads.

O happiness! O happiness! Wilt thou perhaps sing, O my soul? Thou liest
in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd
playeth his pipe.

Take care! Hot noontide sleepeth on the fields. Do not sing! Hush! The
world is perfect.

Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul! Do not even whisper! Lo--hush!
The old noontide sleepeth, it moveth its mouth: doth it not just now drink
a drop of happiness--

--An old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine? Something whisketh
over it, its happiness laugheth. Thus--laugheth a God. Hush!--

--'For happiness, how little sufficeth for happiness!' Thus spake I once
and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy: THAT have I now learned.
Wise fools speak better.

The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a
lizard's rustling, a breath, a whisk, an eye-glance--LITTLE maketh up the
BEST happiness. Hush!

--What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time flown away? Do I not fall?
Have I not fallen--hark! into the well of eternity?

--What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth me--alas--to the heart? To the
heart! Oh, break up, break up, my heart, after such happiness, after such
a sting!

--What? Hath not the world just now become perfect? Round and ripe? Oh,
for the golden round ring--whither doth it fly? Let me run after it!
Quick!

Hush--" (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and felt that he was
asleep.)

"Up!" said he to himself, "thou sleeper! Thou noontide sleeper! Well
then, up, ye old legs! It is time and more than time; many a good stretch
of road is still awaiting you--

Now have ye slept your fill; for how long a time? A half-eternity! Well
then, up now, mine old heart! For how long after such a sleep mayest thou
--remain awake?"

(But then did he fall asleep anew, and his soul spake against him and
defended itself, and lay down again)--"Leave me alone! Hush! Hath not the
world just now become perfect? Oh, for the golden round ball!--

"Get up," said Zarathustra, "thou little thief, thou sluggard! What!
Still stretching thyself, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells?

Who art thou then, O my soul!" (and here he became frightened, for a
sunbeam shot down from heaven upon his face.)

"O heaven above me," said he sighing, and sat upright, "thou gazest at me?
Thou hearkenest unto my strange soul?

When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell down upon all earthly
things,--when wilt thou drink this strange soul--

--When, thou well of eternity! thou joyous, awful, noontide abyss! when
wilt thou drink my soul back into thee?"

Thus spake Zarathustra, and rose from his couch beside the tree, as if
awakening from a strange drunkenness: and behold! there stood the sun
still exactly above his head. One might, however, rightly infer therefrom
that Zarathustra had not then slept long.


LXXI. THE GREETING.

It was late in the afternoon only when Zarathustra, after long useless
searching and strolling about, again came home to his cave. When, however,
he stood over against it, not more than twenty paces therefrom, the thing
happened which he now least of all expected: he heard anew the great CRY
OF DISTRESS. And extraordinary! this time the cry came out of his own
cave. It was a long, manifold, peculiar cry, and Zarathustra plainly
distinguished that it was composed of many voices: although heard at a
distance it might sound like the cry out of a single mouth.

Thereupon Zarathustra rushed forward to his cave, and behold! what a
spectacle awaited him after that concert! For there did they all sit
together whom he had passed during the day: the king on the right and the
king on the left, the old magician, the pope, the voluntary beggar, the
shadow, the intellectually conscientious one, the sorrowful soothsayer, and
the ass; the ugliest man, however, had set a crown on his head, and had put
round him two purple girdles,--for he liked, like all ugly ones, to
disguise himself and play the handsome person. In the midst, however, of
that sorrowful company stood Zarathustra's eagle, ruffled and disquieted,
for it had been called upon to answer too much for which its pride had not
any answer; the wise serpent however hung round its neck.

All this did Zarathustra behold with great astonishment; then however he
scrutinised each individual guest with courteous curiosity, read their
souls and wondered anew. In the meantime the assembled ones had risen from
their seats, and waited with reverence for Zarathustra to speak.
Zarathustra however spake thus:

"Ye despairing ones! Ye strange ones! So it was YOUR cry of distress that
I heard? And now do I know also where he is to be sought, whom I have
sought for in vain to-day: THE HIGHER MAN--:

--In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man! But why do I wonder! Have
not I myself allured him to me by honey-offerings and artful lure-calls of
my happiness?

But it seemeth to me that ye are badly adapted for company: ye make one
another's hearts fretful, ye that cry for help, when ye sit here together?
There is one that must first come,

--One who will make you laugh once more, a good jovial buffoon, a dancer, a
wind, a wild romp, some old fool:--what think ye?

Forgive me, however, ye despairing ones, for speaking such trivial words
before you, unworthy, verily, of such guests! But ye do not divine WHAT
maketh my heart wanton:--

--Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it me! For every one
becometh courageous who beholdeth a despairing one. To encourage a
despairing one--every one thinketh himself strong enough to do so.

To myself have ye given this power,--a good gift, mine honourable guests!
An excellent guest's-present! Well, do not then upbraid when I also offer
you something of mine.

This is mine empire and my dominion: that which is mine, however, shall
this evening and tonight be yours. Mine animals shall serve you: let my
cave be your resting-place!

At house and home with me shall no one despair: in my purlieus do I
protect every one from his wild beasts. And that is the first thing which
I offer you: security!

The second thing, however, is my little finger. And when ye have THAT,
then take the whole hand also, yea, and the heart with it! Welcome here,
welcome to you, my guests!"

Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed with love and mischief. After this
greeting his guests bowed once more and were reverentially silent; the king
on the right, however, answered him in their name.

"O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast given us thy hand and thy
greeting, we recognise thee as Zarathustra. Thou hast humbled thyself
before us; almost hast thou hurt our reverence--:

--Who however could have humbled himself as thou hast done, with such
pride? THAT uplifteth us ourselves; a refreshment is it, to our eyes and
hearts.

To behold this, merely, gladly would we ascend higher mountains than this.
For as eager beholders have we come; we wanted to see what brighteneth dim
eyes.

And lo! now is it all over with our cries of distress. Now are our minds
and hearts open and enraptured. Little is lacking for our spirits to
become wanton.

There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth more pleasingly on earth than
a lofty, strong will: it is the finest growth. An entire landscape
refresheth itself at one such tree.

To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which groweth up like thee--
tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood, stately,--

--In the end, however, grasping out for ITS dominion with strong, green
branches, asking weighty questions of the wind, the storm, and whatever is
at home on high places;

--Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh! who should not
ascend high mountains to behold such growths?

At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted also refresh
themselves; at thy look even the wavering become steady and heal their
hearts.

And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree do many eyes turn to-day; a
great longing hath arisen, and many have learned to ask: 'Who is
Zarathustra?'

And those into whose ears thou hast at any time dripped thy song and thy
honey: all the hidden ones, the lone-dwellers and the twain-dwellers, have
simultaneously said to their hearts:

'Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer worth while to live,
everything is indifferent, everything is useless: or else--we must live
with Zarathustra!'

'Why doth he not come who hath so long announced himself?' thus do many
people ask; 'hath solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps go to
him?'

Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself becometh fragile and breaketh
open, like a grave that breaketh open and can no longer hold its dead.
Everywhere one seeth resurrected ones.

Now do the waves rise and rise around thy mountain, O Zarathustra. And
however high be thy height, many of them must rise up to thee: thy boat
shall not rest much longer on dry ground.

And that we despairing ones have now come into thy cave, and already no
longer despair:--it is but a prognostic and a presage that better ones are
on the way to thee,--

--For they themselves are on the way to thee, the last remnant of God among
men--that is to say, all the men of great longing, of great loathing, of
great satiety,

--All who do not want to live unless they learn again to HOPE--unless they
learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the GREAT hope!"

Thus spake the king on the right, and seized the hand of Zarathustra in
order to kiss it; but Zarathustra checked his veneration, and stepped back
frightened, fleeing as it were, silently and suddenly into the far
distance. After a little while, however, he was again at home with his
guests, looked at them with clear scrutinising eyes, and said:

"My guests, ye higher men, I will speak plain language and plainly with
you. It is not for YOU that I have waited here in these mountains."

("'Plain language and plainly?' Good God!" said here the king on the left
to himself; "one seeth he doth not know the good Occidentals, this sage out
of the Orient!

But he meaneth 'blunt language and bluntly'--well! That is not the worst
taste in these days!")

"Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men," continued Zarathustra; "but for
me--ye are neither high enough, nor strong enough.

For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which is now silent in me, but
will not always be silent. And if ye appertain to me, still it is not as
my right arm.

For he who himself standeth, like you, on sickly and tender legs, wisheth
above all to be TREATED INDULGENTLY, whether he be conscious of it or hide
it from himself.

My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat indulgently, I DO NOT TREAT MY
WARRIORS INDULGENTLY: how then could ye be fit for MY warfare?

With you I should spoil all my victories. And many of you would tumble
over if ye but heard the loud beating of my drums.

Moreover, ye are not sufficiently beautiful and well-born for me. I
require pure, smooth mirrors for my doctrines; on your surface even mine
own likeness is distorted.

On your shoulders presseth many a burden, many a recollection; many a
mischievous dwarf squatteth in your corners. There is concealed populace
also in you.

And though ye be high and of a higher type, much in you is crooked and
misshapen. There is no smith in the world that could hammer you right and
straight for me.

Ye are only bridges: may higher ones pass over upon you! Ye signify
steps: so do not upbraid him who ascendeth beyond you into HIS height!

Out of your seed there may one day arise for me a genuine son and perfect
heir: but that time is distant. Ye yourselves are not those unto whom my
heritage and name belong.

Not for you do I wait here in these mountains; not with you may I descend
for the last time. Ye have come unto me only as a presage that higher ones
are on the way to me,--

--NOT the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety, and
that which ye call the remnant of God;

--Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For OTHERS do I wait here in these
mountains, and will not lift my foot from thence without them;

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