You have always been stiff-necked and clever, like the ass, as the advocate of the people.
And many a powerful one who wanted to fare well with the people has harnessed in front of his horses—a little ass, a famous wise man.
And now I should wish, you famous wise men, that you would finally throw off entirely the lion’s skin!
The speckled skin of the beast of prey, and the matted hair of the investigator, the searcher, and the conqueror!
Ah, for me to learn to believe in your “truthfulness,” you would first have to break your will to revere.
Truthful-so would I call him who goes into godless deserts and has broken his revering heart.
In the yellow sands and burnt by the sun he may well peer thirstily at the islands filled with springs, where the living repose under shady trees.
But his thirst does not persuade him to become like those comfortable ones: for where there are oases, there are also idols.
Hungry, violent, lonely, godless: thus the lion-will wants itself.
Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from gods and worship, fearless and fearful, great and lonely: thus is the will of the truthful.
The truthful, the free spirits, have always dwelt in the desert, as lords of the desert; but in the cities dwell the well-fed famous wise men—the beasts of burden.
For they always pull the people’s cart as asses!
Not that I am angry with them for that: but for me they are still servants and beasts in harness, even though they glitter in harnesses of gold.
And often they have been good servants and praiseworthy. For thus speaks virtue: “If you must be a servant, seek him whom you can serve best!
“The spirit and virtue of your master should flourish because you are his servant: thus you yourself will flourish with his spirit and virtue!”
And truly, you famous wise men, you servants of the people! You yourselves have flourished with the people’s spirit and virtue—and the people by you! I say it to your honor!
But to me even in your virtue you are still of the people, the people with purblind eyes-the people who do not know what spirit is!
Spirit is the life that itself cuts into life: by its own agony it increases its own knowledge-did you already know that?
And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and consecrated with tears as a sacrificial beast—did you already know that?
And the blindness of the blind and his seeking and groping shall yet testify to the power of the sun into which he has gazed—did you already know that?
And the enlightened shall learn to build with mountains! It is a small thing for the spirit to move mountains-did you already know that?
You know only the sparks of the spirit: but you do not see the anvil it is, and the cruelty of its hammer!
Truly, you do not know the spirit’s pride! But still less could you endure the spirit’s modesty, should it ever want to speak!
And never yet could you cast your spirit into a pit of snow: you are not hot enough for that! Thus you also do not know the delight of its chill.
In all respects, however, you are too familiar with the spirit; and you have often made of wisdom a poorhouse and a hospital for bad poets.
You are no eagles: thus you have never experienced the happiness of the spirit’s terror. And he who is not a bird should not roost over abysses.
You are lukewarm to me: but all deep knowledge flows cold. The innermost wells of the spirit are ice-cold: a refreshment to hot hands and handlers.
You stand there respectable and stiff and with straight backs, you famous wise men!-no strong wind or will drives you.
Have you never seen a sail crossing the sea, rounded and swollen and trembling with the violence of the wind?
Like the sail trembling with the violence of the spirit, my wisdom crosses the sea—my wild wisdom!
But you servants of the people, you famous wise men—how could you go with me!—
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
THE NIGHT SONG
IT IS NIGHT: NOW all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul too is a gushing fountain.
It is night: now only do all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.
Something unstilled, unstillable, is within me; it wants to speak out. A craving for love is within me, that itself speaks the language of love.
I am light: ah, that I were night! But it is my loneliness to be girded with light!
Ah, that I were dark and nocturnal! How I would suck at the breasts of light!
And I would bless you, you twinkling small stars and glowworms above!-and rejoice in your gifts of light.
But I live in my own light, I drink into myself again the flames that break forth from me.
I do not know the happiness of those who receive; and I have often dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.
It is my poverty that my hand never rests from giving; it is my envy that I see expectant eyes and the illumined nights of longing.
Oh the misery of all givers! Oh eclipse of my sun! Oh craving to crave! Oh ravenous hunger in satiety!
They take from me: but do I yet touch their souls? There is a gap between giving and receiving; and the smallest gap must finally be bridged.
A hunger grows out of my beauty: I should like to hurt those for whom I shine; I should like to rob those to whom I give-thus I hunger for malice.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretches out to it; hesitating like the waterfall that hesitates even in its plunge—thus I hunger for malice!
Such revenge does my abundance plot: such spite wells up out of my loneliness.
My happiness in giving died in giving, my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
The danger of one who always gives is that he may lose his shame; the hand and heart of him who always distributes become callous by his very distributing.
My eye no longer overflows with the shame of suppliants; my hand has become too hard for the trembling of hands that have been filled.
Where have the tears of my eyes gone and the down of my heart? Oh the loneliness of all givers! Oh silence of all who bring light!
Many suns circle in empty space: to all that is dark they speak with their light-to me they are silent.
Oh this is the hostility of light to what brings light, it travels its course pitilessly.
Unfair in its heart to all that shines, cold toward suns-thus travels every sun.
Like a storm the suns fly along their courses: that is their traveling. They follow their inexorable will: that is their coldness.
Oh, it is only you, you dark, nocturnal ones, that extract warmth from the shining! Oh, only you drink milk and refreshment from the udders of light!
Ah, there is ice around me, my hand is burned with ice! Ah, there is thirst in me, that pants after your thirst!
It is night: ah, that I must be light! And thirst for the nocturnal! And loneliness!
It is night: now my longing breaks forth in me as a well—I long for speech.
It is night: now all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul too is a gushing fountain.
It is night: now all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.—
Thus sang Zarathustra.
THE DANCE SONG
ONE EVENING ZARATHUSTRA WAS walking through the forest with his disciples; and while looking for a well, behold, he came upon a green meadow peacefully surrounded with trees and bushes: on it girls were dancing together. As soon as the girls recognized Zarathustra, they stopped dancing; Zarathustra, however, approached them in a friendly way and spoke these words:
“Do not stop your dance, you lovely girls! No spoilsport, no enemy of girls, has come to you with an evil eye.
“I am God’s advocate with the devil: he, however, is the spirit of gravity. How could I, you light-footed ones, be an enemy of godlike dances? or of girls’ 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 beneath my cypresses.
“And he will even find the little god whom girls love best: he lies beside the well, still, with closed eyes.
“Truly, he fell asleep in broad daylight, the slacker! Did he chase after butterflies too much?
“Do not be angry with me, you beautiful dancers, if I reprimand the little god somewhat! He may cry and weep-but he is laughable even when weeping!
“And with tears in his eyes he should ask you for a dance; and I myself will sing a song to his dance:
“A dance- and mocking-song on the spirit of gravity, my supreme, most powerful devil, who is said to be ‘the master of the world.’ ”—
And this is the song that Zarathustra sang while Cupid and the girls danced together:Lately I gazed into your eye, O life! And I seemed to sink into the unfathomable.
But you pulled me out with a golden rod; you laughed mockingly when I called you unfathomable.
“All fish talk like that,” you said; “what they do not fathom is unfathomable.
“But I am merely changeable and wild and in every way a woman, and no virtuous one:
“Though I be called by you men the ‘profound,’ or ‘faithful,’ ‘eternal,’ ‘mysterious.’
But you men always endow us with your own virtues—ah, you virtuous men!”
Thus she laughed, the incredible woman; but I never believe her and her laughter when she speaks evil of herself.
And when I spoke secretly with my wild wisdom, she said to me angrily: “you will, you desire, you love, that is the only reason you praise life!”
Then I almost answered indignantly and told the truth to the angry one; and one cannot answer more indignantly than when one “tells the truth” to one’s wisdom.
For things stand thus with us three. In my heart I love only life—and truly, most when I hate her!
But that I am fond of wisdom, and often too fond, is because she reminds me so strongly of life!
She has her eye, her laugh, and even her golden fishing rod: is it my fault that both are so alike?
And when life once asked me: “Who is she then, this wisdom?”—then I said eagerly: “Ah, yes! Wisdom!
“One thirsts for her and is not satisfied, one looks at her through veils, one grasps for her through nets.
“Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the canniest old fish are still lured by her.
“She is changeable and capricious; I have often seen her bite her lip and comb against the grain of her hair.
“Perhaps she is wicked and false and altogether a woman; but when she speaks ill of herself, just then she is most seductive.”
When I had said this to life, she laughed maliciously and shut her eyes. “Of whom do you speak?” she said. “Perhaps of me?
“And if you were right—should one say that to my face! But now speak of your wisdom, too!”
Ah, and now again you have opened your eyes, O beloved life! And into the unfathomable I again seemed to sink.—
Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the girls had departed, he became sad.
“The sun has long since set,” he said at last, “the meadow is damp, and from the forest comes coolness.
“An unknown presence is about me and gazes thoughtfully. What! You still live, Zarathustra?
“Why? Wherefore? By what? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to live?—
“Ah, my friends, it is the evening that asks thus through me. Forgive me my sadness!
“Evening has come: forgive me that evening has come!”
Thus sang Zarathustra.
THE GRAVE SONG
“YONDER IS THE GRAVE island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves of my youth. I will carry an evergreen wreath of life there.”
Resolving thus in my heart I crossed the sea.—
Oh, you sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all you gleams of love, you divine fleeting gleams! How could you perish so soon for me! I think of you today as my dead ones.
From you, my dearest dead ones, comes to me a sweet savor, heart-opening and melting. Truly, it convulses and opens the heart of the lone seafarer.
I am still the richest and most to be envied—I, the loneliest one! For I had you and you have me still. Tell me: to whom have there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen to me?
I am still your love’s heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O you dearest ones!
Ah, we were made for one another, you gentle, strange marvels; and you came to me and my longing not like timid birds-no, but as trusting ones to him who trusts!
Yes, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities: must I now name you by your faithlessness, you divine glances and moments: I have as yet learned no other name.
Truly, you died too soon, you fugitives. Yet you did not flee from me, nor did I flee from you: we are innocent to each other in our faithlessness,
To kill me, they strangled you, you songbirds of my hopes! Yes, at you, you dearest ones, malice always shot its arrows-to strike my heart!
And they struck! Because you were always my dearest, my possession and my being possessed: therefore you had to die young, and all-too-early!
The arrow was shot at my most vulnerable possession-at you, whose skin is like down and even more like a smile that dies at a glance!
But I will say this word to my enemies: What is all murder of men compared with what you have done to me!
You did a worse thing to me than any murder; you took from me the irretrievable—thus I speak to you, my enemies!
You murdered my youth’s visions and dearest marvels! You took my playmates from me, those blessed spirits! I lay this wreath and this curse to their memory.
This curse upon you, my enemies! You cut short my eternity, like a tone breaks off in a cold night! It came to me for barely the blink of divine eyes—a mere moment!
Thus spoke my purity once in a happy hour: “All beings shall be divine to me.”
Then you haunted me with foul phantoms; ah, where has that happy hour fled now!
“All days shall be holy to me”—so spoke once the wisdom of my youth: truly, the language of a gay wisdom!
But then you enemies stole my nights and sold them to sleepless torment: ah, where has that gay wisdom fled now?
Once I longed for happy omens from the birds: then you led a monstrous owl across my path, an adverse sign. Ah, where did my tender longings flee then?
I once vowed to renounce all disgust: then you transformed those near and nearest to me into abscesses. Ah, where did my noblest vow flee then?
I once walked as a blind man on blessed paths: then you cast filth on the blind man’s path: and now the old footpath disgusts him.
And when I performed my hardest task and celebrated the victory of my overcomings, then you made those who loved me scream that I hurt them most.
Truly, it was always your doing: you embittered my best honey and the industry of my best bees.
To my charity you have ever sent the most impudent beggars; around my pity you have ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus you have wounded my virtue’s faith.
And when I offered what was holiest to me as a sacrifice, immediately your “piety” put its fatter gifts beside it: so that what was holiest to me suffocated in the fumes of your fat.
And once I wanted to dance as I had never yet danced: beyond all heavens I wanted to dance. Then you seduced my favorite singer.
And then he struck up a gruesome dismal tune; ah, he tooted in my ears like a mournful horn!
Murderous singer, instrument of malice, most innocent yourself! Already I stood prepared for the best dance: then you murdered my rapture with your tones!
I know how to speak the parable of the highest things only in the dance-and now my greatest parable has remained unspoken in my limbs!
Unspoken and unrealized m
y highest hope has remained! And all the visions and consolations of my youth are dead!
How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and overcome such wounds? How did my soul rise again from those graves?
Yes, something invulnerable, unburiable is within me, something that rends rocks: it is called my will. It goes silently and unchanged through the years.
It will go its course upon my feet, my old will; its nature is hard of heart and invulnerable.
Invulnerable am I only in the heel. You live there and are always the same, most patient one! You will always break out of every grave!
What was unrealized in my youth still lives on in you; and as life and youth you sit hopefully here on the yellow ruins of graves.
Yes, for me you are still the demolisher of all graves: Hail to you, my will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections.—
Thus sang Zarathustra.
ON SELF-OVERCOMING
YOU CALL IT “WILL to truth,” you wisest men, that which impels you and fills you with lust?
A will to the thinkability of all being: thus I call your will!
You would make all being thinkable: for you doubt with a healthy mistrust whether it is already thinkable.
But it shall yield and bend to you! So wills your will. It shall become smooth and serve the spirit as its mirror and reflection.
That is your entire will, you wisest men, as a Will to Power;9 and that is even when you speak of good and evil and of valuations.
You want to create a world before which you can kneel: such is your ultimate hope and drunkenness.
The ignorant, to be sure, the people-they are like a river on which a boat floats along: and in the boat sit the valuations, solemn and disguised.
You put your will and your valuations on the river of becoming; what the people believe to be good and evil betrays to me an old will to power.
It was you, you wisest men, who put such guests in this boat, and gave them grandeur and proud names—you and your ruling will!
Thus Spoke Zarathustra Page 13