Thus Spoke Zarathustra (17 page)

‘For where the people are, truth is! Woe to him who seeks!’ That is how it has been from the beginning.

You sought to make the people justified in their reverence: that you called ‘will to truth’, you famous philosophers!

And your heart always said to itself:’ I came from the people: God’s voice, too, came to me from them.’

You have always been obstinate and cunning, like the ass, as the people’s advocate.

And many a man of power who wanted to fare well with the people harnessed in front of his horses – a little ass, a famous philosopher.

And now I should like you to throw the lion-skin right off yourselves, you famous philosophers!

The spotted skin of the beast of prey and the matted hair of the inquirer, the seeker, the overcomer!

Ah, for me to learn to believe in your ‘genuineness’ you would first have to break your will to venerate.

Genuine – that is what I call him who goes into godforsaken deserts and has broken his venerating heart.

In the yellow sand and burned by the sun, perhaps he blinks thirstily at the islands filled with springs where living creatures rest beneath shady trees.

But his thirst does not persuade him to become like these comfortable creatures: for where there are oases there are also idols.

Hungered, violent, solitary, godless: that is how the lion-will wants to be.

Free from the happiness of serfs, redeemed from gods and worship, fearless and fearful, great and solitary: that is how the will of the genuine man is.

The genuine men, the free spirits, have always dwelt in the desert, as the lords of the desert; but in the towns dwell the well-fed famous philosophers – the draught animals.

For they always, as asses, pull –
the people’s
cart!

Not that I am wroth with them for that: however, they are still servants and beasts in harness, even when they glitter with golden gear.

And they have often been good and praiseworthy servants. For thus speaks virtue: ‘If you must be a servant, then seek him whom you can serve best!

‘The spirit and the virtue of your lord should thrive because you are his servant: thus you yourself will thrive with your lord’s spirit and virtue!’

And in truth, you famous philosophers, you servants of the people, you yourselves have thrived with the spirit and virtue of the people – and the people have thrived through you! It is to your honour I say this!

But you are still of the people even in your virtue, of the people with their purblind eyes – of the people who do not know what
spirit
is!

Spirit is the life that itself strikes into life: through its own torment it increases its own knowledge – did you know that before?

And this is the spirit’s happiness: to be anointed and by
tears consecrated as a sacrificial beast – did you know that before?

And the blindness of the blind man and his seeking and groping shall yet bear witness to the power of the sun into which he gazed – did you know that before?

And the enlightened man shall learn to
build
with mountains! It is a small thing for the spirit to move mountains – did you know that before?

You know only the sparks of the spirit: but you do not see the anvil which the spirit is, nor the ferocity of its hammer!

In truth, you do not know the spirit’s pride! But even less could you endure the spirit’s modesty, if it should ever deign to speak!

And you have never yet dared to cast your spirit into a pit of snow: you are not hot enough for that! Thus you do not know the rapture of its coldness, either.

But you behave in all things in too familiar a way with the spirit; and you have often made of wisdom a poorhouse and hospital for bad poets.

You are no eagles: so neither do you know the spirit’s joy in terror. And he who is not a bird shall not make his home above abysses.

You are tepid: 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 a straight back, you famous philosophers! – no strong wind or will propels you.

Have you never seen a sail faring over the sea, rounded and swelling and shuddering before the impetuosity of the wind?

Like a sail, shuddering before the impetuosity of the spirit, my wisdom fares over the sea – my untamed wisdom!

But you servants of the people, you famous philosophers – how
could
you fare with me?

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

The Night Song

I
T
is night: now do all leaping fountains speak louder. And my soul too is a leaping fountain.

It is night: only now do all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.

Something unquenched, unquenchable, is in me, that wants to speak out. A craving for love is in me, that itself speaks the language of love.

Light am I: ah, that I were night! But this is my solitude, that I am girded round with light.

Ah, that I were dark and obscure! How I would suck at the breasts of light!

And I should bless you, little sparkling stars and glowworms above! – and be happy in your gifts of light.

But I live in my own light, I drink back into myself the flames that break from me.

I do not know the joy of the receiver; and I have often dreamed 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 illumined nights of desire.

Oh wretchedness of all givers! Oh eclipse of my sun! Oh craving for desire! Oh ravenous hunger in satiety!

They take from me: but do I yet touch their souls? A gulf stands between giving and receiving; and the smallest gulf must be bridged at last.

A hunger grows from out of my beauty: I should like to rob those to whom I give – thus do I hunger after wickedness.

Withdrawing my hand when another hand already reaches out to it; hesitating, like the waterfall that hesitates even in its plunge – thus do I hunger after wickedness.

Such vengeance does my abundance concoct: such spite wells from my solitude.

My joy in giving died in giving, my virtue grew weary of itself through its abundance!

The danger for him who always gives, is that he may lose his shame; the hand and heart of him who distributes grow callous through sheer 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 eye and the bloom of my heart gone? Oh solitude of all givers! Oh silence of all light-givers!

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 enmity of light towards what gives light: unpitying it travels its way.

Unjust towards the light-giver in its inmost heart, cold towards suns – thus travels every sun.

Like a storm the suns fly along their courses; that is their travelling. They follow their inexorable will; that is their coldness.

Oh, it is only you, obscure, dark ones, who extract warmth from light-givers! Oh, only you drink milk and comfort from the udders of light!

Ah, ice is around me, my hand is burned with ice! Ah, thirst is in me, which yearns after your thirst!

It is night: ah, that I must be light! And thirst for the things of night! And solitude!

It is night: now my longing breaks from me like a well-spring – I long for speech.

It is night: now do all leaping fountains speak louder. And my soul too is a leaping fountain.

It is night: only now do all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.

Thus sang Zarathustra.

The Dance Song

O
NE
evening Zarathustra was walking through the forest with his disciples; and as he was looking for a well, behold, he
came upon a green meadow quietly surrounded by trees and bushes: and in the meadow girls were dancing together. As soon as the girls recognized Zarathustra they ceased their dance; Zarathustra, however, approached them with a friendly air and spoke these words:

Do not cease your dance, sweet girls! No spoil-sport has come to you with an evil eye, no enemy of girls.

I am God’s advocate with the Devil; he, however, is the Spirit of Gravity. How could I be enemy to divine dancing, you nimble creatures? or to girls’ feet with fair 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 rosebowers too under my cypresses.

And he will surely find too the little god whom girls love best: he lies beside the fountain, still, with his eyes closed.

Truly, he has fallen asleep in broad daylight, the idler! Has he been chasing butterflies too much?

Do not be angry with me, fair dancers, if I chastise the little god a little I Perhaps he will cry out and weep, but he is laughable even in weeping!

And with tears in his eyes, he shall ask you for a dance; and I myself will sing a song for his dance.

A dance-song and a mocking-song on the Spirit of Gravity, my supreme, most powerful devil, who they say is ‘the lord of the earth’.

And this is the song Zarathustra sang as cupid and the girls danced together:

Lately I looked 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
cannot fathom is unfathomable.

‘But I am merely changeable and untamed and in everything a woman, and no virtuous one.

‘Although you men call me “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 crossly and told the truth to my angry Wisdom; and one cannot answer more crossly than when one ‘tells the truth’ to one’s Wisdom.

This then is the state of affairs between us three. From the heart of me I love only Life – and in truth, I love her most of all when I hate her!

But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too fond, is because she very much reminds me of Life!

She has her eyes, her laughter, and even her little golden fishing-rod: how can I help it that they both look 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 snatches at her through nets.

‘Is she fair? I know not! But the cleverest old fish are still lured by her.

‘She is changeable and defiant; I have often seen her bite her lip and comb her hair against the grain.

‘Perhaps she is wicked and false, and in everything a wench; but when she speaks ill of herself, then precisely is she most seductive.’

When I said this to Life, she laughed maliciously and closed her eyes. ‘But whom are you speaking of?’ she asked, ‘of me, surely?

‘And if you are right – should you tell me
that
to my face? But now speak of your Wisdom, too!’

Ah, and then you opened your eyes again, O beloved Life! And again I seemed to sink into the unfathomable.

Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance had ended and the girls had gone away, he grew sad.

The sun has long since set (he said at last); the meadow is damp, coolness is coming from the forests.

Something strange and unknown is about me, looking thoughtfully at me. What I are you still living, Zarathustra?

Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly to go on living?

Ah, my friends, it is the evening that questions thus within me.. Forgive me my sadness!

Evening has come: forgive me that it has become evening!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

The Funeral Song

‘Y
ONDER
is the grave-island, the silent island; yonder too are the graves of my youth. I will bear thither an evergreen wreath of life.’

Resolving thus in my heart I fared over the sea.

O, you sights and visions of my youth! O, all you glances of love, you divine momentary glances!
¹⁷
How soon you perished! Today I think of you as my dead ones.

A sweet odour comes to me from you, my dearest dead ones, a heart-easing odour that banishes tears. Truly, it moves and eases the solitary seafarer’s heart.

Still am I the richest and most-to-be-envied man – I, the most solitary! For I
had you
and you have me still: tell me, to whom have such rosy apples fallen from the tree as have fallen to me?

Still am I heir and heritage of your love, blooming to your memory with many-coloured wild-growing virtues, O my most beloved ones!

Ah, we were made for one another, you gentle, strange marvels; and you came to me and my longing not as timid birds – no, you came trusting to me, who also trusted.

Yes, made for faithfulness, like me, and for tender eternities:
must I now name you by your unfaithfulness, you divine glances and moments: I have as yet learned no other name.

Truly, you perished too soon, you fugitives. Yet you did not fly from me, nor did I fly from you: we are innocent towards one another in our unfaithfulness.

They put you to death, you song-birds of my hopes, in order to kill
me
! Yes, the arrows of malice were always directed at you, my beloved ones – in order to strike at my heart!

And they struck! You were always my heart’s dearest, my possession and my being-possessed:
therefore
you had to die young and all-too-early!