Thus Spoke Zarathustra (43 page)

Then, however, occurred the most astonishing thing in that long, astonishing day: the ugliest man began once more and for the last time to gurgle and snort, and when he at last came to the point of speech, behold, a question leaped round and pure from his mouth, a good, deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all who heard it.

‘My assembled friends,’ said the ugliest man, ‘what do you think? For the sake of this day – I am content for the first time to have lived my whole life.

‘And it is not enough that I testify only this much. It is worth while to live on earth: one day, one festival with Zarathustra has taught me to love the earth.

‘“Was
that
– life?” I will say to death. “Very well! Once more!”’

‘My friends, what do you think? Will you not, like me, say to death: “Was
that
– life? For Zarathustra’s sake, very well! Once more!’

Thus spoke the ugliest man; and it was not long before midnight. And what would you think then took place? As soon as the Higher Men had heard his question, they were all at once conscious of their transformation and recovery, and of who had given them these things: then they leaped towards Zarathustra, thanking, adoring, caressing, kissing his hands, each after his own fashion: so that some laughed, some wept. The old prophet, however, danced with pleasure; and even if he was then full of sweet wine, as some narrators believe, he was certainly fuller still of sweet life and had renounced all weariness. There are even those who tell that the ass danced at that time: for not in vain had the ugliest man given it wine to drink. This may be the case, or it may be otherwise; and if in truth the ass did not dance that evening, greater and stranger marvels than the dancing of an ass occurred. In brief, as Zarathustra’s saying has it: ‘What does it matter!’

2

Zarathustra, however, when this incident with the ugliest man occurred, stood there like one intoxicated: his eyes grew dim, his tongue stammered, his feet tottered. And who could divine what thoughts then passed over Zarathustra’s soul? But it seemed that his soul fell back and fled before him and was in remote distances and as if ‘upon a high ridge’, as it is written,

‘wandering like a heavy cloud between past and future.’ But gradually, while the Higher Men were holding him in their arms, he came to himself a little and his hands restrained the adoring and anxious throng; yet he did not speak. All at once, however, he swiftly turned his head, for he seemed to hear something: then he laid a finger to his lips and said:
‘Come!
’

And at once it grew still and mysterious all around; from the depths, however, there slowly arose the sound of a bell. Zarathustra listened to it, as the Higher Men did; then he laid a finger to his lips a second time and said again:
‘Come! Come! Midnight is coming on
!’ and his voice had altered. But
still he did not move from his place: then it grew yet more still and mysterious, and everything listened, even the ass and Zarathustra’s animals of honour, the eagle and the serpent, likewise Zarathustra’s cave and the great, cool moon and the night itself. Zarathustra, however, laid his hand to his lips for the third time and said:

Come! Come! Come! Let us walk now! The hour has come: let us walk into the night
!

3

You Higher Men, midnight is coming on: so I will say something in your ears, as that old bell says it in my ear,

as secretly, as fearfully, as warmly as that midnight-bell tells it to me, which has experienced more than one man:

which has already counted your fathers’ painful heartbeats -ah! ah! how it sighs! how in dreams it laughs! the ancient, deep, deep midnight!

Soft! Soft! Then many a thing can be heard which may not speak by day; but now, in the cool air, when all the clamour of your hearts, too, has grown still,

now it speaks, now it is heard, now it creeps into nocturnal, over-wakeful souls: ah! ah! how it sighs! how in dreams it laughs!

do you not hear, how secretly, fearfully, warmly it speaks to you, the ancient, deep, deep midnight?

O Man! Attend
!

4

Woe is me! Where has time fled? Did I not sink into deep wells? The world is asleep

Ah! Ah! The dog howls, the moon is shining. I will rather die, die, than tell you what my midnight-heart is now thinking.

Now I am dead. It is finished. Spider, why do you spin your web around me? Do you want blood? Ah! Ah! The dew is falling, the hour has come

– the hour which chills and freezes me, which asks and asks and asks: ‘Who has heart enough for it?

‘ – who shall be master of the world? Who will say: Thus shall you run, you great and small streams!’

– the hour approaches: O man, you Higher Man, attend! this discourse is for delicate ears, for your ears –
what does deep midnight’s voice contend?

5

I am borne away, my soul dances. The day’s task! The day’s task! Who shall be master of the world?

The moon is cool, the wind falls silent. Ah I Ah! Have you flown high enough? You dance: but a leg is not a wing.

You good dancers, now all joy is over: wine has become dregs, every cup has grown brittle, the graves mutter.

You have not flown high enough: now the graves mutter: ‘Redeem the dead! Why is it night so long? Does the moon not intoxicate us?’

You Higher Men, redeem the graves, awaken the corpses! Alas, why does the worm still burrow? The hour approaches, it approaches,

the bell booms, the heart still drones, the woodworm, the heart’s worm, still burrows. Alas!
The world is deep
!

6

Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! Your sound, your intoxicated, ominous sound, delights me! – from how long ago, from how far away does your sound come to me, from a far distance, from the pools of love!

You ancient bell, you sweet lyre! Every pain has torn at your heart, the pain of a father, the pain of our fathers, the pain of our forefathers; your speech has grown ripe,

ripe like golden autumn and afternoon, like my hermit’s heart – now you say: The world itself has grown ripe, the grapes grow brown,

now they want to die, to die of happiness. You Higher Men, do you not smell it? An odour is secretly welling up,

a scent and odour of eternity, an odour of roseate bliss, a brown, golden wine odour of ancient happiness,

of intoxicated midnight’s dying happiness, which sings:
The world is deep: deeper than day can comprehend
!

7

Let me be! Let me be! I am too pure for you. Do not touch me! Has my world not just become perfect?

My skin is too pure for your hands. Let me be, stupid, doltish, stifling day! Is midnight not brighter?

The purest shall be master of the world; the least known, the strongest, the midnight souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day.

O day, do you grope for me? Do you feel for my happiness? Do you think me rich, solitary, a pit of treasure, a chamber of gold?

O world, do you desire me? Do you think me worldly? Do you think me spiritual? Do you think me divine? But day and world, you are too clumsy,

have cleverer hands, reach out for deeper happiness, for deeper unhappiness, reach out for some god, do not reach out for me:

my unhappiness, my happiness is deep, you strange day, but yet I am no god, no divine Hell:
deep is its woe
,

8

God’s woe is deeper, you strange world I Reach out for God’s woe, not for me! What am I? An intoxicated, sweet lyre

– a midnight lyre, a croaking bell which no one understands but which
has
to speak before deaf people, you Higher Men! For you do not understand me!

Gone! Gone! Oh youth! Oh noontide! Oh afternoon! Now come evening and midnight; the dog howls, the wind:

is the wind not a dog? It whines, it yelps, it howls. Ah! Ah! how it sighs! how it laughs, how it rasps and gasps, the midnight hour!

How it now speaks soberly, this intoxicated poet! perhaps
it has overdrunk its drunkenness? perhaps it has grown over-wakeful? perhaps it ruminates?

it ruminates upon its woe in dreams, the ancient, deep midnight hour, and still more upon its joy. For joy, though woe be deep:
Joy is deeper than heart’s agony
.

9

You grape-vine! Why do you praise me? For I cut you! I am cruel, you bleed: what means your praise of my intoxicated cruelty?

‘What has become perfect, everything ripe – wants to die!’ thus you speak. Blessed, blessed be the vine-knife! But everything unripe wants to live: alas!

Woe says: ‘Fade! Be gone, woe!’ But everything that suffers wants to live, that it may grow ripe and merry and passionate,

passionate for remoter, higher, brighter things. ‘I want heirs,’ thus speaks everything that suffers, ‘I want children, I do not want
myself
. ’

Joy, however, does not want heirs or children, joy wants itself, wants eternity, wants recurrence, wants everything eternally the same.

Woe says: ‘Break, bleed, heart! Walk, legs! Wings, fly! Upward! Upward, pain!’ Very well! Come on! my old heart:
Woe says: Fade! Go
!

10

What do you think, you Higher Men? Am I a prophet? A dreamer? A drunkard? An interpreter of dreams? A midnight bell?

A drop of dew? An odour and scent of eternity? Do you not hear it? Do you not smell it? My world has just become perfect, midnight is also noonday,

pain is also joy, a curse is also a blessing, the night is also a sun – be gone, or you will learn: a wise man is also a fool.

Did you ever say Yes to one joy? O my friends, then you
said Yes to
all
woe as well. All things are chained and entwined together, all things are in love;

if ever you wanted one moment twice, if ever you said: ‘You please me, happiness, instant, moment!’ then you wanted
everything
to return I

you wanted everything anew, everything eternal, everything chained, entwined together, everything in love, O that is how you
loved
the world,

you everlasting men, loved it eternally and for all time: and you say even to woe:’ Go, but return!’
For all joy wants -eternity
!

11

All joy wants the eternity of all things, wants honey, wants dregs, wants intoxicated midnight, wants graves, wants the consolation of graveside tears, wants gilded sunsets,

what
does joy not want! it is thirstier, warmer, hungrier, more fearful, more secret than all woe, it wants
itself;
it bites into
itself
, the will of the ring wrestles within it,

it wants love, it wants hatred, it is superabundant, it gives, throws away, begs for someone to take it, thanks him who takes, it would like to be hated;

so rich is joy that it thirsts for woe, for Hell, for hatred, for shame, for the lame, for the
world
– for it knows, oh it knows this world!

You Higher Men, joy longs for you, joy the intractable, blissful – for your woe, you ill-constituted! All eternal joy longs for the ill-constituted.

For all joy wants itself, therefore it also wants heart’s agony I O happiness! O pain! Oh break, heart! You Higher Men, learn this, learn that joy wants eternity,

joy wants the eternity of all things,
wants deep, deep, deep eternity
!

12

Have you now learned my song? Have you divined what it means? Very well! Come on! You Higher Men, now sing my roundelay!

Now sing yourselves the song whose name is ‘Once more’, whose meaning is ‘To all eternity!’ – sing, you Higher Men, Zarathustra’s roundelay!

O Man! Attend!
What does deep midnight’s voice contend?
‘I slept my sleep,
‘And now awake at dreaming’s end:
‘The world is deep,
‘Deeper than day can comprehend.
‘Deep is its woe,
‘Joy – deeper than heart’s agony:
‘Woe says: Fade! Go!
‘Bat all joy wants eternity,
‘Wants deep, deep, deep eternity
!’

The Sign

O
N
the morning after this night, however, Zarathustra sprang up from his bed, girded his loins, and emerged from his cave, glowing and strong, like a morning sun emerging from behind dark mountains.

‘Great star,’ he said, as he had said once before, ‘you profound eye of happiness, what would all your happiness be if you did not have
those
for whom you shine!

‘And if they remained in their rooms while you were already awake and had come, giving and distributing: how angry your proud modesty would be!

‘Very well! they are still asleep, these Higher Men, while
I
am awake:
they
are not my rightful companions! It is not for them I am waiting in my mountains.

‘I want to go to my work, to my day: but they do not understand what are the signs of my morning, my step -is no awakening call for them.

‘They are still sleeping in my cave, their dream still drinks at my intoxicated songs. Yet the ear that listens to
me
, the
obeying
ear, is missing from them.’

Zarathustra had said this to his heart when the sun rose:
then he looked inquiringly aloft, for he heard above him the sharp cry of his eagle. ‘Very well!’ he cried up, ‘so do I like it, so do I deserve it. My animals are awake, for I am awake.

‘My eagle is awake and, like me, does honour to the sun. With eagle’s claws it reaches out for the new light. You are my rightful animals: I love you.

‘But I still lack my rightful men!’

Thus spoke Zarathustra; then, however, he suddenly heard that he was surrounded by countless birds, swarming and fluttering – the whirring of so many wings and the throng about his head, however, were so great that he shut his eyes. And truly, it was as if a cloud had fallen upon him, a cloud of arrows discharged over a new enemy. And behold, in this case it was a cloud of love, and over a new friend.