The Portable Nietzsche

by Friedrich Nietzsche

  5. On Virtue That Makes Small: “Do whatever you will, but . . .”: What Nietzsche is concerned with is not casuistry but character, not a code of morals but a kind of man, not a syllabus of behavior but a state of being.

  6. Upon the Mount of Olives: “'The ice of knowledge will yet freeze him to death!’ they moan.” Compare Stefan George’s poem on the occasion of Nietzsche’s death (my Nietzsche, Prologue, II): “He came too late who said to thee imploring: There is no way left over icy cliffs.”

  7. On Passing By: Zarathustra’s ape, or “grunting swine,” unintentionally parodies Zarathustra’s attitude and style. His denunciations are born of wounded vanity and vengefulness, while Zarathustra’s contempt is begotten by love; and “where one can no longer love, there one should pass by.”

  8. On Apostates: Stylistically, Zarathustra is now often little better than his ape. But occasional epigrams show his old power: the third paragraph in section 2, for instance.

  9. The Return Home : “Among men you will always seem wild and strange,” his solitude says to Zarathustra. But “here all things come caressingly to your discourse and flatter you, for they want to ride on your back. On every parable you ride to every truth.” The discipline of communication might have served the philosopher better than the indiscriminate flattery of his solitude. But in this respect too, it was not given to Nietzsche to live in blissful ignorance: compare, for example, “The Song of Melancholy” in Part Four.

  10. On the Three Evils: The praise of so-called evil as an ingredient of greatness is central in Nietzsche’s thought, from his early fragment, Homer’s Contest, to his Antichrist. There are few problems the self-styled immoralist pursued so persistently. Whether he calls attention to the element of cruelty in the Greek agon or denounces Christianity for vilifying sex, whether he contrasts sublimation and extirpation or the egoism of the creative and the vengeful: all these are variations of one theme. In German, the three evils in this chapter are Wollust, Herrschsucht, Selbstsucht. For the first there is no exact equivalent in English. In this chapter, “lust” might do in some sentences, “voluptuousness” in others, but each would be quite inaccurate half the time, and the context makes it imperative that the same word be used throughout. There is only one word in English that renders Nietzsche’s meaning perfectly in every single sentence: sex. Its only disadvantage: it is, to put it mildly, a far less poetic word than Wollust, and hence modifies the tone though not Nietzsche’s meaning. But if we reflect on the three things which, according to Nietzsche, had been maligned most, under the influence of Christianity, and which he sought to rehabilitate or revaluate—were they not selflshness, the will to power, and sex? Nietzsche’s early impact was in some ways comparable to that of Freud or Havelock Ellis. But prudery was for him at most one of three great evils, one kind of hypocrisy, one aspect of man’s betrayal of the earth and of himself.

  11. On the Spirit of Gravity: It is not only the metaphor of the camel that points back to the first chapter of Part One: the dead weight of convention is a prime instance of what is meant by the spirit of gravity; and the bird that outsoars tradition is, like the child and the self-propelled wheel at the beginning of the book, a symbol of creativity. The creator, however, is neither an “evil beast” nor an “evil tamer of beasts”—neither a profligate nor an ascetic: he integrates what is in him, perfects and lavishes himself, and says, “This is my way; where is yours?” Michelangelo and Mozart do not offer us “the way” but a challenge and a promise of what is possible.

  12. On Old and New Tablets: Attempt at a grand summary, full of allusions to, and quotations from, previous chapters. Its unevenness is nowhere more striking than in section 12, with its puns on “crusades.” Such sections as 5, 7, and 8, on the other hand, certainly deserve attention. The despot in section 11, who has all history rewritten, seems to point forward in time to Hitler, of whose racial legislation it could indeed be said: “with the grandfather, however, time ends.” Section 15 points back to Luther. Section 20 exposes in advance Stefan George’s misconception when he ended his second poem on Nietzsche (my Nietzsche, p. 11): “The warner went—the wheel that downward rolls / To emptiness no arm now tackles in the spokes.” The penultimate paragraph of this section is more “playful” in the original: Ein Vorspiel bin ich besserer Spieler, oh meine Bruderl Ein Beispiell In section 25 the key word is Versuch, one of Nietzsche’s favorite words, which means experiment, attempt, trial. Sometimes he associates it with suchen, searching. (In Chapter 2, “On the Vision and the Riddle,” Sucher, Versucher has been rendered “searchers, researchers.”) Section 29, finally, is used again, with minute changes, to conclude Twilight of the Idols.

  13. The Convalescent: Zarathustra still cannot face the thought of the eternal recurrence but speaks about human speech and cruelty. In the end, his animals expound the eternal recurrence.

  14. On the Great Longing: Hymn to his soul: Zarathustra and his soul wonder which of them should be grateful to the other.

  15. The Other Dancing Song: Life and wisdom as women again; but in this dancing song, life is in complete control, and when Zarathustra’s imagination runs away with him he gets his face slapped. What he whispers into the ear of life at the end of section 2 is, no doubt, that after his death he will yet recur eternally. The song at the end, punctuated by the twelve strokes of the bell, is interpreted in “The Drunken Song” in Part Four.

  16. The Seven Seals: The eternal recurrence of the small man no longer nauseates Zarathustra. His affirmation now is boundless and without reservation: “For I love you, O eternity.”

  THE WANDERER

  It was about midnight when Zarathustra started across the ridge of the island so that he might reach the other coast by early morning; for there he wanted to embark. There he would find a good roadstead where foreign ships too liked to anchor, and they often took along people who wanted to cross the sea from the blessed isles.

  Now as Zarathustra was climbing the mountain he thought how often since his youth he had wandered alone and how many mountains and ridges and peaks he had already climbed.

  I am a wanderer and a mountain climber, he said to his heart; I do not like the plains, and it seems I cannot sit still for long. And whatever may yet come to me as destiny and experience will include some wandering and mountain climbing: in the end, one experiences only oneself. The time is gone when mere accidents could still happen to me; and what could still come to me now that was not mine already? What returns, what finally comes home to me, is my own self and what of myself has long been in strange lands and scattered among all things and accidents. And one further thing I know: I stand before my final peak now and before that which has been saved up for me the longest. Alas, now I must face my hardest path! Alas, I have begun my loneliest walk! But whoever is of my kind cannot escape such an hour—the hour which says to him:

  “Only now are you going your way to greatness! Peak and abyss—they are now joined together.

  “You are going your way to greatness: now that which has hitherto been your ultimate danger has become your ultimate refuge.

  “You are going your way to greatness: now this must give you the greatest courage that there is no longer any path behind you.

  “You are going your way to greatness: here nobody shall sneak after you. Your own foot has effaced the path behind you, and over it there is written: impossibility.

  “And if you now lack all ladders, then you must know how to climb on your own head: how else would you want to climb upward? On your own head and away over your own heart! Now what was gentlest in you must still become the hardest. He who has always spared himself much will in the end become sickly of so much consideration. Praised be what hardens! I do not praise the land where butter and honey flow.

  “One must learn to look away from oneself in order to see much: this hardness is necessary to every climber of mountains.

  “But the lover of knowledge who is obtrusive with his eyes—how could he see more of all things than their
foregrounds? But you, O Zarathustra, wanted to see the ground and background of all things; hence you must climb over yourself—upward, up until even your stars are under you!”

  Indeed, to look down upon myself and even upon my stars, that alone I should call my peak; that has remained for me as my ultimate peak.

  Thus spoke Zarathustra to himself as he was climbing, comforting his heart with hard maxims; for his heart was sore as never before. And when he reached the height of the ridge, behold, the other sea lay spread out before him; and he stood still and remained silent a long time. But the night was cold at this height, and clear and starry bright.

  I recognize my lot, he finally said sorrowfully. Well, I am ready. Now my ultimate loneliness has begun.

  Alas, this black sorrowful sea below me! Alas, this pregnant nocturnal dismay! Alas, destiny and sea! To you I must now go down! Before my highest mountain I stand and before my longest wandering; to that end I must first go down deeper than ever I descended—deeper into pain than ever I descended, down into its blackest flood. Thus my destiny wants it. Well, I am ready.

  Whence come the highest mountains? I once asked. Then I learned that they came out of the sea. The evidence is written in their rocks and in the walls of their peaks. It is out of the deepest depth that the highest must come to its height.

  Thus spoke Zarathustra on the peak of the mountain, where it was cold; but when he came close to the sea and at last stood alone among the cliffs, he had become weary from walking and even more full of longing than before.

  Everything is still asleep now, he said; even the sea is asleep. Drunk with sleep and strange it looks at me. But its breath is warm, that I feel. And I also feel that it is dreaming. In its dreams it tosses on hard pillows. Listen! Listen! How it groans with evil memories! Or evil forebodings? Alas, I am sad with you, you dark monster, and even annoyed with myself for your sake. Alas, that my hand does not have strength enough! Verily, I should like to deliver you from evil dreams.

  And as Zarathustra was speaking thus he laughed at himself in melancholy and bitterness. What, Zarathustra, he said, would you sing comfort even to the sea? O you loving fool, Zarathustra, you are trust-overfull. But thus have you always been: you have always approached everything terrible trustfully. You have wanted to pet every monster. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on the paw—and at once you were ready to love and to lure it.

  Love is the danger of the loneliest; love of everything if only it is alive. Laughable, verily, are my folly and my modesty in love.

  Thus spoke Zarathustra and laughed for the second time. But then he recalled his friends whom he had left; and, as if he had wronged them with his thoughts, he was angry with himself for his thoughts. And soon it happened that he who had laughed wept: from wrath and longing Zarathustra wept bitterly.

  ON THE VISION AND THE RIDDLE

  1

  When it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board—for another man from the blessed isles had embarked with him—there was much curiosity and anticipation. But Zarathustra remained silent for two days and was cold and deaf from sadness and answered neither glances nor questions. But on the evening of the second day he opened his ears again, although he still remained silent, for there was much that was strange and dangerous to be heard on this ship, which came from far away and wanted to sail even farther. But Zarathustra was a friend of all who travel far and do not like to live without danger. And behold, eventually his own tongue was loosened as he listened, and the ice of his heart broke. Then he began to speak thus:

  To you, the bold searchers, researchers, and whoever embarks with cunning sails on terrible seas—to you, drunk with riddles, glad of the twilight, whose soul flutes lure astray to every whirlpool, because you do not want to grope along a thread with cowardly hand; and where you can guess, you hate to deduce—to you alone I tell the riddle that I saw, the vision of the loneliest.

  Not long ago I walked gloomily through the deadly pallor of dusk—gloomy and hard, with lips pressed together. Not only one sun had set for me. A path that ascended defiantly through stones, malicious, lonely, not cheered by herb or shrub—a mountain path crunched under the defiance of my foot. Striding silently over the mocking clatter of pebbles, crushing the rock that made it slip, my foot forced its way upward. Upward—defying the spirit that drew it downward toward the abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and archenemy. Upward—although he sat on me, half dwarf, half mole, lame, making lame, dripping lead into my ear, leaden thoughts into my brain.

  “O Zarathustra,” he whispered mockingly, syllable by syllable; “you philosopher’s stone! You threw yourself up high, but every stone that is thrown must fall. O Zarathustra, you philosopher’s stone, you slingstone, you star-crusher! You threw yourself up so high; but every stone that is thrown must fall. Sentenced to yourself and to your own stoning—O Zarathustra, far indeed have you thrown the stone, but it will fall back on yourself.”

  Then the dwarf fell silent, and that lasted a long time. His silence, however, oppressed me; and such twosomeness is surely more lonesome than being alone. I climbed, I climbed, I dreamed, I thought; but everything oppressed me. I was like one sick whom his wicked torture makes weary, and who as he falls asleep is awakened by a still more wicked dream. But there is something in me that I call courage; that has so far slain my every discouragement. This courage finally bade me stand still and speak: “Dwarf! It is you or I!”

  For courage is the best slayer, courage which attacks; for in every attack there is playing and brass.

  Man, however, is the most courageous animal: hence he overcame every animal. With playing and brass he has so far overcome every pain; but human pain is the deepest pain.

  Courage also slays dizziness at the edge of abysses: and where does man not stand at the edge of abysses? Is not seeing always—seeing abysses?

  Courage is the best slayer: courage slays even pity. But pity is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man sees into life, he also sees into suffering.

  Courage, however, is the best slayer—courage which attacks: which slays even death itself, for it says, “Was that life? Well then! Once more!”

  In such words, however, there is much playing and brass. He that has ears to hear, let him hear!

  2

  “Stop, dwarf!” I said. “It is I or you! But I am the stronger of us two: you do not know my abysmal thought. That you could not bear!”

  Then something happened that made me lighter, for the dwarf jumped from my shoulder, being curious; and he crouched on a stone before me. But there was a gateway just where we had stopped.

  “Behold this gateway, dwarf!” I continued. “It has two faces. Two paths meet here; no one has yet followed either to its end. This long lane stretches back for an eternity. And the long lane out there, that is another eternity. They contradict each other, these paths; they offend each other face to face; and it is here at this gateway that they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: ‘Moment.’ But whoever would follow one of them, on and on, farther and farther—do you believe, dwarf, that these paths contradict each other eternally?”

  “All that is straight lies,” the dwarf murmured contemptuously. “All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle.”

  “You spirit of gravity,” I said angrily, “do not make things too easy for yourself! Or I shall let you crouch where you are crouching, lamefoot; and it was I that carried you to this height.

  “Behold,” I continued, “this moment! From this gateway, Moment, a long, eternal lane leads backward: behind us lies an eternity. Must not whatever can walk have walked on this lane before? Must not whatever can happen have happened, have been done, have passed by before? And if everything has been there before—what do you think, dwarf, of this moment? Must not this gateway too have been there before? And are not all things knotted together so firmly that this moment draws after it all that is to come? Therefore—itself too? For whatever can walk—in this long lane out there too
, it must walk once more.

  “And this slow spider, which crawls in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself, and I and you in the gateway, whispering together, whispering of eternal things—must not all of us have been there before? And return and walk in that other lane, out there, before us, in this long dreadful lane—must we not eternally return?”

  Thus I spoke, more and more softly; for I was afraid of my own thoughts and the thoughts behind my thoughts. Then suddenly I heard a dog howl nearby. Had I ever heard a dog howl like this? My thoughts raced back. Yes, when I was a child, in the most distant childhood: then I heard a dog howl like this. And I saw him too, bristling, his head up, trembling, in the stillest midnight when even dogs believe in ghosts—and I took pity: for just then the full moon, silent as death, passed over the house; just then it stood still, a round glow—still on the flat roof, as if on another’s property —that was why the dog was terrified, for dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And when I heard such howling again I took pity again.

  Where was the dwarf gone now? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the whispering? Was I dreaming, then? Was I waking up?