The Portable Nietzsche (31 page)

Not the height but the precipice is terrible. That precipice where the glance plunges
down
and the hand reaches up. There the heart becomes giddy confronted with its double will. Alas, friends, can you guess what is my heart's double will?

This, this is
my
precipice and my danger, that my glance plunges into the height and that my hand would grasp and hold on to the depth. My will clings to man; with fetters I bind myself to man because I am swept up toward the overman; for that way my other will wants to go. And therefore I live blind among men as if I did not know them, that my hand might not wholly lose its faith in what is firm.

I do not know you men: this darkness and consolation are often spread around me. I sit at the gateway, exposed to every rogue, and I ask: who wants to deceive me? That is the first instance of my human prudence, that I let myself be deceived in order not to be on guard against deceivers. Alas, if I were on guard against men, how could man then be an anchor for my ball? I should be swept up and away too easily. This providence lies over my destiny, that I must be without caution.

And whoever does not want to die of thirst among men must learn to drink out of all cups; and whoever would stay clean among men must know how to wash even with dirty water. And thus I often comforted myself, “Well then, old heart! One misfortune failed you; enjoy this as your good fortune.”

This, however, is the second instance of my human prudence: I spare the vain more than the proud. Is not hurt vanity the mother of all tragedies? But where pride is hurt, there something better than pride is likely to grow.

That life may be good to look at, its play must be well acted; but for that good actors are needed. All the vain are good actors: they act and they want people to enjoy looking at them; all their spirit is behind this will. They enact themselves, they invent themselves; near them I love to look at life: that cures my melancholy. Therefore I spare the vain, for they are the physicians of my melancholy and keep me attached to life as to a play.

And then: who could fathom the full depth of the modesty of the vain man? I am well disposed to him and I pity his modesty. It is from you that he wants to acquire his faith in himself; he nourishes himself on your glances, he eats your praise out of your hands. He even believes your lies if you lie well about him; for, at bottom, his heart sighs: what am
I
? And if the true virtue is the one that is unaware of itself—well, the vain man is unaware of his modesty.

This, however, is the third instance of my human prudence: that I do not permit the sight of the evil to be spoiled for me by your timidity. I am delighted to see the wonders hatched by a hot sun: tigers and palms and rattlesnakes. Among men too a hot sun hatches a beautiful breed. And there are many wonderful things in those who are evil.

To be sure, even as your wisest men did not strike me as so very wise, I found men's evil too smaller than its reputation. And often I asked myself, shaking my head: why go on rattling, you rattlesnakes?

Verily, there is yet a future for evil too. And the hottest south has not yet been discovered for man. How many things are now called grossest wickedness and are yet only twelve shoes wide and three months long! One day, however, bigger dragons will come into this world. For in order that the overman should not lack his dragon, the overdragon that is worthy of him, much hot sunshine must yet glow upon damp jungles. Your wildcats must first turn into tigers, and your poisonous toads into crocodiles; for the good hunter shall have good hunting.

Verily, you who are good and just, there is much about you that is laughable, and especially your fear of that which has hitherto been called devil. What is great is so alien to your souls that the overman would be awesome to you in his kindness. And you who are wise and knowing, you would flee from the burning sun of that wisdom in which the overman joyously bathes his nakedness. You highest men whom my eyes have seen, this is my doubt concerning you and my secret laughter: I guess that you would call my overman—devil.

Alas, I have wearied of these highest and best men: from their “height” I longed to get up, out, and away to the overman. A shudder came over me when I saw these best ones naked; then I grew wings to soar off into distant futures. Into more distant futures, into more southern souths than any artist ever dreamed of—where gods are ashamed of all clothes. But I want to see you disguised, my neighbors and fellow men, and well decked out, and vain, and dignified, as “the good and the just.” And I myself want to sit among you disguised—
misjudging
you and myself: for that is the final instance of my human prudence.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

What happened to me, my friends? You see me distracted, driven away, unwillingly obedient, prepared to go—alas, to go away from you. Indeed, Zarathustra must return once more to his solitude; but this time the bear goes back to his cave without joy. What happened to me? Who ordered this? Alas, my angry mistress wants it, she spoke to me; have I ever yet mentioned her name to you? Yesterday, toward evening, there spoke to me
my stillest hour:
that is the name of my awesome mistress. And thus it happened; for I must tell you everything lest your hearts harden against me for departing suddenly.

Do you know the fright of him who falls asleep? He is frightened down to his very toes because the ground gives under him and the dream begins. This I say to you as a parable. Yesterday, in the stillest hour, the ground gave under me, the dream began. The hand moved, the clock of my life drew a breath; never had I heard such stillness around me: my heart took fright.

Then it spoke to me without voice: “You know it, Zarathustra?” And I cried with fright at this whispering, and the blood left my face; but I remained silent.

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “You know it, Zarathustra, but you do not say it!” And at last I answered defiantly: “Yes, I know it, but I do not want to say it!”

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “You do not want to, Zarathustra? Is this really true? Do not hide in your defiance.” And I cried and trembled like a child and spoke: “Alas, I would like to, but how can I? Let me off from this! It is beyond my strength!”

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “What do you matter, Zarathustra? Speak your word and break!”

And I answered: “Alas, is it
my
word? Who am I? I await the worthier one; I am not worthy even of being broken by it.”

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “What do you matter? You are not yet humble enough for me. Humility has the toughest hide.” And I answered: “What has the hide of my humility not borne? I dwell at the foot of my height. How high are my peaks? No one has told me yet. But my valleys I know well.”

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “O Zarathustra, he who has to move mountains also moves valleys and hollows.” And I answered: “As yet my words have not moved mountains, and what I said did not reach men. Indeed, I have gone to men, but as yet I have not arrived.”

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “What do you know of
that
? The dew falls on the grass when the night is most silent.” And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and went my own way; and in truth my feet were trembling then. And thus they spoke to me: ‘You have forgotten the way, now you have also forgotten how to walk.' ”

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “What matters their mockery? You are one who has forgotten how to obey: now you shall command. Do you not know who is most needed by all? He that commands great things. To do great things is difficult; but to command great things is more difficult. This is what is most unforgivable in you: you have the power, and you do not want to rule.” And I answered: “I lack the lion's voice for commanding.”

Then it spoke to me again as a whisper: “It is the stillest words that bring on the storm. Thoughts that come on doves' feet guide the world. O Zarathustra, you shall go as a shadow of that which must come: thus you will command and, commanding, lead the way.” And I answered: “I am ashamed.”

Then it spoke to me again without voice: “You must yet become as a child and without shame. The pride of youth is still upon you; you have become young late; but whoever would become as a child must overcome his youth too.” And I reflected for a long time and trembled. But at last I said what I had said at first: “I do not want to.”

Then laughter surrounded me. Alas, how this laughter tore my entrails and slit open my heart! And it spoke to me for the last time: “O Zarathustra, your fruit is ripe, but you are not ripe for your fruit. Thus you must return to your solitude again; for you must yet become mellow.” And again it laughed and fled; then it became still around me as with a double stillness. But I lay on the ground and sweat poured from my limbs.

Now you have heard all, and why I must return to my solitude. Nothing have I kept from you, my friends. But this too you have heard from me, who is still the most taciturn of all men—and wants to be. Alas, my friends, I still could tell you something, I still could give you something. Why do I not give it? Am I stingy?

 

But when Zarathustra had spoken these words he was overcome by the force of his pain and the nearness of his parting from his friends, and he wept loudly; and no one knew how to comfort him. At night, however, he went away alone and left his friends.

1.
The Wanderer
: The contrast between Zarathustra's sentimentality and his praise of hardness remains characteristic of the rest of the book.

2.
On the Vision and the Riddle
: Zarathustra's first account of the eternal recurrence (see my
Nietzsche,
11, II) is followed by a proto-surrealistic vision of a triumph over nausea.

3
. On Involuntary Bliss
: Zarathustra still cannot face the thought of the eternal recurrence.

4.
Before Sunrise
: An ode to the sky. Another quotation from Zweig's essay on Nietzsche seems pertinent: “His nerves immediately register every meter of height and every pressure of the weather as a pain in his organs, and they react rebelliously to every revolt in nature. Rain or gloomy skies lower his vitality (‘overcast skies depress me deeply'), the weight of low clouds he feels down into his very intestines, rain ‘lowers the potential,' humidity debilitates, dryness vivifies, sunshine is salvation, winter is a kind of paralysis and death. The quivering barometer needle of his April-like, changeable nerves never stands still—most nearly perhaps in cloudless landscapes, on the windless tablelands of the Engadine.” In this chapter the phrase “beyond good and evil” is introduced; also one line, slightly varied. of the “Drunken Song” (see below). Another important theme in Nietzsche's thought: the praise of chance and “a
little
reason” as opposed to any divine purpose.

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.