Thus Spoke Zarathustra (22 page)

That my hand may not quite lose its belief in firmness:
that is why
I live blindly among men, as if I did not recognize them.

I do not recognize you men: this darkness and consolation has often spread around me.

I sit at the gateway and wait for every rogue and ask: Who wants to deceive me?

This is my first manly prudence: I let myself be deceived so as not to be on guard against deceivers.

Ah, if I were on guard against men, how could men be an anchor for my ball? It would be torn upward and away too easily!

This providence lies over my fate: I have to be without foresight.

And he who does not want to die of thirst among men must learn to drink out of all glasses; and he who wants to stay clean among men must know how to wash himself even with dirty water.

And to console myself I often spoke thus: ‘Well then! Come on, old heart! A misfortune failed to harm you: enjoy that as your – good fortune!’

This, however, is my second manly prudence: I am more considerate to the
vain
than to the proud.

Is wounded vanity not the mother of all tragedies? But where pride is wounded there surely grows up something better than pride.

If life is to be pleasant to watch, its play must be well acted: for that, however, good actors are needed.

I found all vain people to be good actors: they act and desire that others shall want to watch them – all their spirit is in this desire.

They act themselves, they invent themselves; I like to watch life in their vicinity – it cures melancholy.

I am considerate to the vain because they are physicians to my melancholy and hold me fast to mankind as to a play.

And further: who can estimate the full depth of the vain man’s modesty! I love and pity him on account of his modesty.

He wants to learn belief in himself from you; he feeds upon your glances, he eats praise out of your hands.

He believes even your lies when you lie favourably to him: for his heart sighs in its depths: ‘What am
I
?’

And if the virtue that is unconscious of itself be the true virtue: well, the vain man is unconscious of his modesty!

This, however, is my third manly prudence: I do not let your timorousness spoil my pleasure at the sight of the
wicked
.

I am happy to see the marvels the hot sun hatches: tigers and palm trees and rattle-snakes.

Among men, too, there is a fine brood of the hot sun and much that is marvellous in the wicked.

Indeed, as your wisest man did not seem so very wise to me, so I found that human wickedness, too, did not live up to its reputation.

And I often shook my head and asked: Why go on rattling, you rattle-snakes?

Truly, there is still a future, even for evil! And the hottest South has not yet been discovered for mankind.

How many a thing is now called grossest wickedness which is only twelve feet broad and three months long! One day, however, greater dragons will come into the world.

For, that the Superman may not lack his dragon, the super-dragon
worthy of him, much hot sunshine must yet burn upon damp primeval forests!

Your wild cats must have become tigers and your poison-toads crocodiles: for the good huntsman shall have a good hunt!

And truly, you good and just! There is much in you that is laughable and especially your fear of him who was formerly called the ‘Devil’!

Your souls are so unfamiliar with what is great that the Superman would be
fearful
to you in his goodness!

And you wise and enlightened men, you would flee from the burning sun of wisdom in which the Superman joyfully bathes his nakedness!

You highest men my eyes have encountered! This is my doubt of you and my secret laughter: I think you would call my Superman – a devil!

Alas, I grew weary of these highest and best men: from their ‘heights’ I longed to go up, out, away to the Superman!

A horror overcame me when I saw these best men naked: then there grew for me the wings to soar away into distant futures.

Into most distant futures, into more southerly Souths than artist ever dreamed of: thither where gods are ashamed of all clothes!

But I want to see
you
disguised, you neighbours and fellow-men, and well-dressed and vain and worthy as ‘the good and just’.

And I myself will sit among you disguised, so that I may
misunderstand
you and myself: that, in fact, is my last manly prudence.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

The Stillest Hour

W
HAT
has happened to me, my friends? You behold me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go – alas, to go away from
you
!

Yes, Zarathustra must go into his solitude once again: but this time the bear goes unhappily back into his cave!

What has happened to me? Who has ordered this? – alas, my mistress will have it so, so she told me; have I ever told you her name?

Yesterday towards evening
my stillest hour
spoke to me: that is the name of my terrible mistress.

And thus it happened, for I must tell you everything, that your hearts may not harden against me for departing so suddenly!

Do you know the terror which assails him who is falling asleep?

He is terrified down to his toes, because the ground seems to give way, and the dream begins.

I tell you this in a parable. Yesterday, at the stillest hour, the ground seemed to give way: my dream began.

The hand moved, the dock of my life held its breath – I had never heard such stillness about me: so that my heart was terrified.

Then, voicelessly, something said to me: ‘
You know, Zarathustra?
’

And I cried out for terror at this whisper, and the blood drained from my face: but I kept silent.

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘You know, Zarathustra, but you do not speak!’

And I answered at last defiantly: ‘Yes, I know, but I will not speak!’

Then again something said to me voicelessly: ‘You
will
not, Zarathustra? Is this true? Do not hide yourself in your defiance!’

And I wept and trembled like a child and said: ‘Alas, I want to, but how can I? Release me from this alone! It is beyond my strength!’

Then again something said to me voicelessly: ‘Of what consequence are you, Zarathustra? Speak your teaching and break!’

And I answered: ‘Ah, is it
my
teaching? Who am
I
? I await one who is more worthy; I am not worthy even to break by it.’

Then again something said to me voicelessly: ‘Of what consequence are you? You are not yet humble enough. Humility has the toughest hide.’

And I answered: ‘What has the hide of my humility not already endured? I live at the foot of my heights: how high are my peaks? No one has yet told me. But I know my valleys well.’

Then again something said to me voicelessly: ‘O Zarathustra, he who has to move mountains moves valleys and low-lands too.’

And I answered: ‘My words have as yet moved no mountains and what I have spoken has not reached men. Indeed, I went to men, but I have not yet attained them.’

Then again something said to me voicelessly: ‘How do you know
that
? The dew falls upon the grass when the night is at its most silent.’

And I answered: ‘They mocked me when I found and walked my own way; and in truth my feet trembled then.

‘And they spoke thus to me: You have forgotten the way, now you will also forget how to walk!’

Then again something said to me voicelessly: ‘Of what consequence is their mockery? You are one who has unlearned how to obey: now you shall command!

‘Do you know what it is all men most need? Him who commands great things.

‘To perform great things is difficult: but more difficult is to command great things.

‘This is the most unpardonable thing about you: You have the power and you will not rule.’

And I answered: ‘I lack the lion’s voice for command.’

Then again something said to me as in a whisper: ‘It is the stillest words which bring 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 again something said to me voicelessly: ‘You must yet become a child and without shame.

‘The pride of youth is still in you, you have become young late: but he who wants to become a child must overcome even his youth.’

And I considered long and trembled. At last, however, I said what I had said at first: ‘I will not.’

Then a laughing broke out around me. Alas, how this laughing tore my body and ripped open my heart!

And for the last time something said to me: ‘O Zarathustra, your fruits are ripe but you are not ripe for your fruits!

‘So you must go back into solitude: for you shall yet grow mellow.’

And again something laughed, and fled: then it grew still round me as if with a twofold stillness. I, however, lay on the ground and the sweat poured from my limbs.

Now you have heard everything, and why I must return to my solitude. I have kept nothing back from you, my friends.

And you have heard, too,
who
is the most silent of men – and intends to remain so!

Ah, my friends! I should have something more to tell you, I should have something more to give you! Why do I not give it? Am I then mean?

When Zarathustra had said these words, however, the violence of his grief and the nearness of his departure from his friends overwhelmed him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew how to comfort him. But that night he went away alone and forsook his friends.

PART THREE

‘
You look up when you desire to be exalted. And I look down, because I am exalted
.

‘
Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted?

‘
He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary
. ’

ZARATHUSTRA:      
‘
Of Reading and Writing
’

The Wanderer

I
T
was midnight when Zarathustra made his way over the ridge of the island, so that he might arrive at the other shore with the early dawn: for there he meant to board ship. For there was a good harbour at which foreign ships, too, liked to drop anchor: they took on board many who wanted to leave the Blissful Islands and cross the sea. Now, as Zarathustra was climbing the mountain he recalled as he went the many lonely wanderings he had made from the time of his youth, and how many mountains and ridges and summits 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 fate and experience – a wandering and a mountain-climbing will be in it: in the final analysis one experiences only oneself.

The time has passed when accidents could befall me; and what
could
still come to me that was not already my own?

It is returning, at last it is coming home to me – my own Self and those parts of it that have long been abroad and scattered among all things and accidents.

And I know one thing more: I stand now before my last summit and before the deed that has been deferred the longest. Alas, I have to climb my most difficult path! Alas, I have started upon my loneliest wandering!

But a man of my sort does not avoid such an hour: the hour that says to him: ‘Only now do you tread your path of greatness! Summit and abyss – they are now united in one!

‘You are treading your path of greatness: now what was formerly your ultimate danger has become your ultimate refuge!

‘You are treading your path of greatness: now it must call up all your courage that there is no longer a path behind you!

‘You are treading your path of greatness: no one shall steal after you here! Your foot itself has extinguished the path behind you, and above that path stands written: Impossibility.

‘And when all footholds disappear, you must know how to climb upon your own head: how could you climb upward otherwise?

‘Upon your own head and beyond your own heart! Now the gentlest part of you must become the hardest.

‘He who has always been very indulgent with himself sickens at last through his own indulgence. All praise to what makes hard! I do not praise the land where butter and honey – flow!