Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None E-Book

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

• Herausgeber: Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None (German: Also sprach Zarathustra: Ein Buch für Alle und Keinen, also translated as Thus Spake Zarathustra) is a philosophical novel by German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, composed in four parts between 1883 and 1885 and published between 1883 and 1891. Much of the work deals with ideas such as the "eternal recurrence of the same", the parable on the "death of God", and the "prophecy" of the Übermensch, which were first introduced in The Gay Science.
Thus Spoke Zarathustra was conceived while Nietzsche was writing The Gay Science; he made a small note, reading "6,000 feet beyond man and time," as evidence of this. More specifically, this note related to the concept of the eternal recurrence, which is, by Nietzsche's admission, the central idea of Zarathustra; this idea occurred to him by a "pyramidal block of stone" on the shores of Lake Silvaplana in the Upper Engadine, a high alpine region whose valley floor is at 6,000 feet (1,800 m). Nietzsche planned to write the book in three parts over several years. He wrote that the ideas for Zarathustra first came to him while walking on two roads surrounding Rapallo, according to Elisabeth Förster.

Leseprobe

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None

First digital edition 2017 by Anna Ruggieri

INTRODUCTION BY MRS FORSTER-NIETZSCHE.

HOW ZARATHUSTRA CAME INTO BEING.

“Zarathustra” is my brother’s most personal work; it is the history of his most individual experiences, of his friendships, ideals, raptures, bitterest disappointments and sorrows. Above it all, however, there soars, transfiguring it, the image of his greatest hopes and remotest aims. My brother had the figure of Zarathustra in his mind from his very earliest youth: he once told me that even as a child he had dreamt of him. At different periods in his life, he would call this haunter of his dreams by different names; “but in the end,” he declares in a note on the subject, “I had to do a PERSIAN the honour of identifying him with this creature of my fancy. Persians were the first to take a broad and comprehensive view of history. Every series of evolutions, according to them, was presided over by a prophet; and every prophet had his ‘Hazar,’—his dynasty of a thousand years.”

All Zarathustra’s views, asalso his personality, were early conceptions of my brother’s mind. Whoever reads his posthumously published writings for the years 1869-82 with care, will constantly meet with passages suggestive of Zarathustra’s thoughts and doctrines. For instance, the ideal of the Superman is put forth quite clearly in all his writings during the years 1873-75; and in “We Philologists”, the following remarkable observations occur:—

“How can one praise and glorify a nation as a whole?—Even among the Greeks, it was the INDIVIDUALS that counted.”

“The Greeks are interesting and extremely important because they reared such a vast number of great individuals. How was this possible? The question is one which ought to be studied.

“I am interested only in the relations of a people to the rearing of the individual man, and among the Greeks the conditions were unusually favourable for the development of the individual; not by any means owing to the goodness of the people, but because of the struggles of their evil instincts.

“WITH THE HELP OF FAVOURABLE MEASURES GREAT INDIVIDUALS MIGHT BE REARED WHO WOULD BE BOTH DIFFERENT FROM AND HIGHER THAN THOSE WHO HERETOFORE HAVE OWED THEIR EXISTENCE TO MERE CHANCE. Here we may still be hopeful: in the rearing of exceptional men.”

The notion ofrearing the Superman is only a new form of an ideal Nietzsche already had in his youth, that “THE OBJECT OF MANKIND SHOULD LIE IN ITS HIGHEST INDIVIDUALS” (or, as he writes in “Schopenhauer as Educator”: “Mankind ought constantly to be striving to producegreat men—this and nothing else is its duty.”) But the ideals he most revered in those days are no longer held to be the highest types of men. No, around this future ideal of a coming humanity—the Superman—the poet spread the veil of becoming. Who can tell to what glorious heights man can still ascend? That is why, after having tested the worth ofour noblest ideal—that of the Saviour, in the light of the new valuations, the poet cries with passionate emphasis in “Zarathustra”:

“Never yet hath there been aSuperman. Naked have I seen both of them, the greatest and the smallest man:—

All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily even the greatest found I—all-too-human!”—

The phrase “the rearing of the Superman,” has very often been misunderstood. By the word “rearing,” in this case, is meant the act of modifying by means of new and higher values—values which, as laws and guides of conduct and opinion, are now to rule over mankind. In general the doctrine of the Superman can only be understood correctlyin conjunction with other ideas of the author’s, such as:—the Order of Rank, the Will to Power, and the Transvaluation of all Values. He assumes that Christianity, as a product of the resentment of the botched and the weak, has put in ban all that is beautiful, strong, proud, and powerful, in fact all the qualities resulting from strength, and that, in consequence, all forces which tend to promote or elevate life have been seriously undermined. Now, however, a new table of valuations must be placed over mankind—namely, that of the strong, mighty, and magnificent man, overflowing with life and elevated to his zenith—the Superman, who is now put before us with overpowering passion as the aim of our life, hope, and will. And just as the old system of valuing,which only extolled the qualities favourable to the weak, the suffering, and the oppressed, has succeeded in producing a weak, suffering, and “modern” race, so this new and reversed system of valuing ought to rear a healthy, strong, lively, and courageoustype, which would be a glory to life itself. Stated briefly, the leading principle of this new system of valuing would be: “All that proceeds from power is good, all that springs from weakness is bad.”

This type must not be regarded as a fanciful figure: it is not a nebulous hope which is to be realised at some indefinitely remote period, thousands of years hence; nor is it a new species (in the Darwinian sense) of which we can know nothing, and which it would therefore be somewhat absurd to strive after. But it is meant to be a possibility which men of the present could realise with all their spiritual and physical energies, provided they adopted the new values.

The author of “Zarathustra” never lost sight of that egregious example of a transvaluation of all values through Christianity, whereby the whole of the deified mode of life and thought of the Greeks, as well as strong Romedom, was almost annihilated or transvalued in a comparatively short time. Could not a rejuvenated Graeco-Roman system of valuing (once it had been refined and made more profound by the schooling which two thousand years of Christianity had provided) effect another such revolution within a calculable period of time, until that glorious type of manhood shall finally appear which is tobe our new faith and hope, and in the creation of which Zarathustra exhorts us to participate?

In his private notes on the subject the author uses the expression “Superman” (always in the singular, by-the-bye), as signifying “the most thoroughly well-constituted type,” as opposed to “modern man”; above all, however, he designates Zarathustra himself as an example of the Superman. In “Ecco Homo” he is careful to enlighten us concerning theprecursors and prerequisites to the advent of this highest type, in referring to a certain passage in the “Gay Science”:—

“In order to understand this type, we must first be quite clear in regard to the leading physiological condition on which it depends: this condition is what I call GREAT HEALTHINESS. I know not how to express my meaning more plainly or more personally than I have done already in one of the last chapters (Aphorism 382) of the fifth book of the ‘Gaya Scienza’.”

“We, the new, the nameless, the hard-to-understand,”—it says there,—“we firstlings of a yet untried future—we require for a new end also a new means, namely, a new healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder and merrier than all healthiness hitherto. He whose soul longeth to experience the whole range of hitherto recognised values and desirabilities, and to circumnavigate all the coasts of this ideal ‘Mediterranean Sea’, who, from the adventures of his most personal experience, wants to know how it feels to be a conqueror, and discoverer of the ideal—as likewise how it is with the artist, the saint, the legislator, the sage, the scholar, the devotee, the prophet, and the godly non-conformist of the old style:—requires one thing above all for that purpose, GREAT HEALTHINESS—such healthiness as one not only possesses, but also constantly acquires andmust acquire, because one unceasingly sacrifices it again, and must sacrifice it!—And now, after having been long on the way in this fashion, we Argonauts of the ideal, more courageous perhaps than prudent, and often enough shipwrecked and brought to grief, nevertheless dangerously healthy, always healthy again,—it would seem as if, in recompense for it all, that we have a still undiscovered country before us, the boundaries of which no one has yet seen, a beyond to all countries and corners of the ideal known hitherto, a world so over-rich in the beautiful, the strange, the questionable, the frightful, and the divine, that our curiosity as well as our thirst for possession thereof, have got out of hand—alas! that nothing will now any longer satisfy us!—

“How could we still be content with THE MAN OF THE PRESENT DAY after such outlooks, and with such a craving in our conscience and consciousness? Sad enough; but it is unavoidable that we should look on the worthiest aims and hopes of the man of the present day with ill-concealed amusement, and perhaps should no longer look at them. Another ideal runs on before us, a strange, tempting ideal full of danger, to which we should not like to persuade any one, because we do not so readily acknowledge any one’s RIGHTTHERETO: the ideal of a spirit who plays naively (that is to say involuntarily and from overflowing abundance and power) with everything that has hitherto been called holy, good, intangible, or divine; to whom the loftiest conception which the people havereasonably made their measure of value, would already practically imply danger, ruin, abasement, or at least relaxation, blindness, or temporary self-forgetfulness; the ideal of a humanly superhuman welfare and benevolence, which will often enough appear INHUMAN, for example, when put alongside of all past seriousness on earth, and alongside of all past solemnities in bearing, word, tone, look, morality, and pursuit, as their truest involuntary parody—and WITH which, nevertheless, perhaps THE GREAT SERIOUSNESS only commences, when the proper interrogative mark is set up, the fate of the soul changes, the hour-hand moves, and tragedy begins...”

Although the figure of Zarathustra and a large number of the leading thoughts in this work had appeared much earlierin the dreams and writings of the author, “Thus Spake Zarathustra” did not actually come into being until the month of August 1881 in Sils Maria; and it was the idea of the Eternal Recurrence of all things which finally induced my brother to set forth hisnew views in poetic language. In regard to his first conception of this idea, his autobiographical sketch, “Ecce Homo”, written in the autumn of 1888, contains the following passage:—

“The fundamental idea of my work—namely, the Eternal Recurrence of allthings—this highest of all possible formulae of a Yea-saying philosophy, first occurred to me in August 1881. I made a note of the thought on a sheet of paper, with the postscript: 6,000 feet beyond men and time! That day I happened to be wandering throughthe woods alongside of the lake of Silvaplana, and I halted beside a huge, pyramidal and towering rock not far from Surlei. It was then that the thought struck me. Looking back now, I find that exactly two months previous to this inspiration, I had had anomen of its coming in the form of a sudden and decisive alteration in my tastes—more particularly in music. It would even be possible to consider all ‘Zarathustra’ as a musical composition. At all events, a very necessary condition in its production was arenaissance in myself of the art of hearing. In a small mountain resort (Recoaro) near Vicenza, where I spent the spring of 1881, I and my friend and Maestro, Peter Gast—also one who had been born again—discovered that the phoenix music that hovered overus, wore lighter and brighter plumes than it had done theretofore.”

During the month of August 1881 my brother resolved to reveal the teaching of the Eternal Recurrence, in dithyrambic and psalmodic form, through the mouth of Zarathustra. Among the notes of this period, we found a page on which is written the first definite plan of “Thus Spake Zarathustra”:—

“MIDDAY AND ETERNITY.” “GUIDE-POSTS TO A NEW WAY OF LIVING.”

Beneath this is written:—

“Zarathustra born on lake Urmi; left his home in his thirtieth year, went into the province of Aria, and, during ten years of solitude in the mountains, composed the Zend-Avesta.”

“The sun of knowledge stands once more at midday; and the serpent of eternity lies coiled in its light—: It is YOUR time, ye midday brethren.”

In that summer of 1881, my brother, after many years of steadily declining health, began at last to rally, and it is to this first gush of the recovery of his once splendid bodily condition that we owe not only “The Gay Science”, which in its mood may be regarded as a prelude to “Zarathustra”, but also “Zarathustra” itself. Just as he was beginning to recuperate his health, however, an unkind destiny brought him a number of most painful personal experiences. His friends caused him many disappointments, which were the more bitter to him, inasmuch as he regarded friendship as such a sacred institution; and for the first time in his life he realised the whole horror of that loneliness to which, perhaps, all greatness is condemned. But to be forsaken is something very different from deliberately choosing blessed loneliness. How he longed, in those days, for the ideal friend who would thoroughly understand him, to whom he would be able to say all, and whom he imagined he had found at various periods in his lifefrom his earliest youth onwards. Now, however,that the way he had chosen grew ever more perilous and steep, he found nobody who could follow him: he therefore created a perfect friend for himself in the ideal form of a majestic philosopher, and made thiscreation the preacher of his gospel to the world.

Whether my brother would ever have written “Thus Spake Zarathustra” according to the first plan sketched in the summer of 1881, if he had not had the disappointments already referred to, is now an idle question; but perhaps where “Zarathustra” is concerned, we may also say with Master Eckhardt: “The fleetest beast to bear you to perfection is suffering.”

My brother writes as follows about the origin of the first part of “Zarathustra”:—“In the winter of 1882-83, I was living on the charming little Gulf of Rapallo, not far from Genoa, and between Chiavari and Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good; the winter was cold and exceptionally rainy; and the small inn in which I lived was so close to the water that at night my sleep would be disturbed if the sea were high. These circumstances were surely the very reverse of favourable; and yet in spite of it all, and as if in demonstration of my belief that everything decisive comes to life in spite of every obstacle, it was precisely during this winter and in the midst of these unfavourable circumstances that my ‘Zarathustra’ originated. In the morning I used to start out in a southerly direction up the glorious road to Zoagli, which rises aloft through a forestof pines and gives one a view far out into the sea. In the afternoon, as often as my health permitted, I walked round the whole bay from Santa Margherita to beyond Porto Fino. This spot was all the more interesting to me, inasmuch as it was so dearly lovedby the Emperor Frederick III. In the autumn of 1886 I chanced to be there again when he was revisiting this small, forgotten world of happiness for the last time. It was on these two roads that all ‘Zarathustra’ came to me, above all Zarathustra himself as a type;—I ought rather to say that it was on these walks that these ideas waylaid me.”

The first part of “Zarathustra” was written in about ten days—that is to say, from the beginning to about the middle of February 1883. “The last lines were written precisely in the hallowed hour when Richard Wagner gave up the ghost in Venice.”

With the exception of the ten days occupied in composing the first part of this book, my brother often referred to this winter as the hardest and sickliest he had ever experienced. He did not, however, mean thereby that his former disorders were troubling him, but that he was suffering from a severe attack of influenza which he had caught in Santa Margherita, and which tormented him for several weeks after his arrival in Genoa. Asa matter of fact, however, what he complained of most was his spiritual condition—that indescribable forsakenness—to which he gives such heartrending expression in “Zarathustra”. Even the reception which the first part met with at the hands of friends andacquaintances was extremely disheartening: for almost all those to whom he presented copies of the work misunderstood it. “I found no one ripe for many of my thoughts; the case of ‘Zarathustra’ proves that one can speak with the utmost clearness, and yetnot be heard by any one.” My brother was very much discouraged by the feebleness of the response he was given, and as he was striving just then to give up the practice of taking hydrate of chloral—a drug he had begun to take while ill with influenza,—the following spring, spent in Rome, was a somewhat gloomy one for him. He writes about it as follows:—“I spent a melancholy spring in Rome, where I only just managed to live,—and this was no easy matter. This city, which is absolutely unsuited to the poet-author of ‘Zarathustra’, and for the choice of which I wasnot responsible, made me inordinately miserable. I tried to leave it. I wanted to go to Aquila—the opposite of Rome in every respect, and actually founded in a spirit of enmity towards that city (justas I also shall found a city some day), as a memento of an atheist and genuine enemy of the Church—a person very closely related to me,—the great Hohenstaufen, the Emperor Frederick II. But Fate lay behind it all: I had to return again to Rome. In the endI was obliged to be satisfied with the Piazza Barberini, after I had exerted myself in vain to find an anti-Christian quarter. I fear that on one occasion, to avoid bad smells as much as possible, I actually inquired at the Palazzo del Quirinale whether they could not provide a quiet room for a philosopher. In a chamber high above the Piazza just mentioned, from which one obtained a general view of Rome and could hear the fountains plashing far below, the loneliest of all songs was composed—‘The Night-Song’. About this time I was obsessed by an unspeakably sad melody, the refrain of which I recognised in the words, ‘dead through immortality.’”

We remained somewhat too long in Rome that spring, and what with the effect of the increasing heat and the discouraging circumstances already described, my brother resolved not to write any more, or in any case, not to proceed with “Zarathustra”, although I offered to relieve him of all trouble in connection with the proofs and the publisher. When, however, we returnedto Switzerland towards the end of June, and he found himself once more in the familiar and exhilarating air of the mountains, all his joyous creative powers revived, and in a note to me announcing the dispatch of some manuscript, he wrote as follows: “I have engaged a place here for three months: forsooth, I am the greatest fool to allow my courage to be sapped from me by the climate of Italy. Now and again I am troubled by the thought: WHAT NEXT? My ‘future’ is the darkest thing in the world to me, but asthere still remains a great deal for me to do, I suppose I ought rather to think of doing this than of my future, and leave the rest to THEE and the gods.”

The second part of “Zarathustra” was written between the 26th of June and the 6th July. “This summer, finding myself once more in the sacred place where the first thought of ‘Zarathustra’ flashed across my mind, I conceived the second part. Ten days sufficed. Neither for the second, the first, nor the third part, have I required a day longer.”

He often used to speak of the ecstatic mood in which he wrote “Zarathustra”; how in his walks over hill and dale the ideas would crowd into his mind, and how he would note them down hastily in a note-book from which he would transcribe them on his return, sometimesworking till midnight. He says in a letter to me: “You can have no idea of the vehemence of such composition,” and in “Ecce Homo” (autumn 1888) he describes as follows with passionate enthusiasm the incomparable mood in which he created Zarathustra:—

“—Hasany one at the end of the nineteenth century any distinct notion of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration? If not, I will describe it. If one had the smallest vestige of superstition in one, it would hardly be possible to set aside completely the idea that one is the mere incarnation, mouthpiece or medium of an almighty power. The idea of revelation in the sense that something becomes suddenly visible and audible with indescribable certainty and accuracy, which profoundly convulses and upsets one—describes simply the matter of fact. One hears—one does not seek; one takes—one does not ask who gives: a thought suddenly flashes up like lightning, it comes with necessity,unhesitatingly—I have never had any choice in the matter. Thereis an ecstasy such that the immense strain of it is sometimes relaxed by a flood of tears, along with which one’s steps either rush or involuntarily lag, alternately. There is the feeling that one is completely out of hand, with the very distinct consciousness of an endless number of fine thrills and quiverings to the very toes;—there is a depth of happiness in which the painfullest and gloomiest do not operate as antitheses, but as conditioned, as demanded in the sense of necessary shades of colour in suchan overflow of light. There is an instinct for rhythmic relations which embraces wide areas of forms (length, the need of a wide-embracing rhythm, is almost the measure of the force of an inspiration, a sort of counterpart to its pressure and tension). Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of freedom, of absoluteness, of power and divinity. The involuntariness of the figures and similes is the most remarkable thing; one loses all perception of what constitutes the figure and what constitutes the simile; everything seems to present itself as the readiest, the correctest and the simplest means of expression. It actually seems, to use one of Zarathustra’s own phrases, as if all things came unto one, and would fain be similes:‘Here do all things come caressingly to thy talk and flatter thee, for they want to ride upon thy back. On every simile dost thou here ride to every truth. Here fly open unto thee all being’s words and word-cabinets; here all being wanteth to become words,here all becoming wanteth to learn of thee how to talk.’ This is MY experience of inspiration. I do not doubt but that one would have to go back thousands of years in order to find some one who could say to me: It is mine also!—”

In the autumn of 1883 mybrother left the Engadine for Germany and stayed there a few weeks. In the following winter, after wandering somewhat erratically through Stresa, Genoa, and Spezia, he landed in Nice, where the climate so happily promoted his creative powers that he wrotethe third part of “Zarathustra”. “In the winter, beneath the halcyon sky of Nice, which then looked down upon me for the first time in my life, I found the third ‘Zarathustra’—and came to the end of my task; the whole having occupied me scarcely a year. Many hidden corners and heights in the landscapes round about Nice are hallowed to me by unforgettable moments. That decisive chapter entitled ‘Old and New Tables’ was composed in the very difficult ascent from the station to Eza—that wonderful Moorish village in the rocks. My most creative moments were always accompanied by unusual muscular activity. The body is inspired: let us waive the question of the ‘soul.’ I might often have been seen dancing in those days. Without a suggestion of fatigue I could thenwalk for seven or eight hours on end among the hills. I slept well and laughed well—I was perfectly robust and patient.”

As we have seen, each of the three parts of “Zarathustra” was written, after a more or less short period of preparation, in about ten days. The composition of the fourth part alone was broken by occasional interruptions. The first notes relating to this part were written while he and I were staying together in Zurich in September 1884. In the following November, while staying at Mentone,he began to elaborate these notes, and after a long pause, finished the manuscript at Nice between the end of January and the middle of February 1885. My brother then called this part the fourth and last; but even before, and shortly after it had been privately printed, he wrote to me saying that he still intended writing a fifth and sixth part, and notes relating to these parts are now in my possession.This fourth part (the original MS. of which contains this note: “Only for my friends, not for the public”) is written in a particularly personal spirit, and those few to whom he presented a copy of it, he pledged to the strictest secrecy concerning its contents. He often thought of making this fourth part public also, but doubted whether he would ever be able to do so without considerably altering certain portions of it. At all events he resolved to distribute this manuscript production, of which only forty copies were printed, only among those who had proved themselves worthy of it, and it speaks eloquentlyof his utter loneliness and need of sympathy in those days, that he had occasion to present only seven copies of his book according to this resolution.

Already at the beginning of this history I hinted at the reasons which led my brother to select a Persian as the incarnation of his ideal of the majestic philosopher. His reasons, however, for choosing Zarathustra of all others to be his mouthpiece, he gives us in the following words:—“People have never asked me, as they should have done, what the name Zarathustra precisely means in my mouth, in the mouth of the first Immoralist; for what distinguishes that philosopher from all others in the past is the very fact that he was exactly the reverse of an immoralist. Zarathustra was the first to see in the struggle between good and evil the essential wheel in the working of things. The translation of morality into the metaphysical, as force, cause, end in itself, was HIS work. But the very question suggests its own answer. Zarathustra CREATED the most portentous error, MORALITY, consequently he should also be the first to PERCEIVE that error, not only because he has had longer and greater experience of the subject than any other thinker—all history is the experimental refutation of the theory of the so-called moralorder of things:—the more important point is that Zarathustra was more truthful than any other thinker. In his teaching alone do we meet with truthfulness upheld as the highest virtue—i.e.: the reverse of the COWARDICE of the ‘idealist’ who flees from reality. Zarathustra had more courage in his body than any other thinker before or after him. To tell the truth and TO AIM STRAIGHT: that is the first Persian virtue. Am I understood?... The overcoming of morality through itself—through truthfulness, the overcoming of the moralist through his opposite—THROUGH ME—: that is what the name Zarathustra means in my mouth.”

ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE.

Nietzsche Archives,

Weimar, December 1905.

THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA.

FIRST PART. ZARATHUSTRA’SDISCOURSES.

ZARATHUSTRA’S PROLOGUE.

1.

When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and thelake of his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed hisspirit and solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But atlast his heart changed,—and rising one morning with the rosydawn, he went before the sun, and spake thus unto it:

Thou great star! What would be thy happiness if thou hadst notthose for whom thou shinest!

For ten years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thouwouldst have wearied of thy light and of the journey, had it notbeen for me, mine eagle, and my serpent.

But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflowand blessed thee for it.

Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gatheredtoomuch honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.

I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have oncemore become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in theirriches.

Therefore must I descend into the deep: as thou doest in theevening,when thou goest behind the sea, and givest light also tothe nether-world, thou exuberant star!

Like thee must I GO DOWN, as men say, to whom I shalldescend.

Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even thegreatest happiness without envy!

Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that the water may flowgolden out of it, and carry everywhere the reflection of thybliss!

Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra isagain going to be a man.

Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.

2.

Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no one meeting him.When he entered the forest, however, there suddenly stood beforehim an old man, who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And thusspake the old man to Zarathustra:

“No stranger to me isthis wanderer: many years ago passedhe by. Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered.

Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: wilt thounow carry thy fire into the valleys? Fearest thou not theincendiary’s doom?

Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathinglurketh about his mouth. Goeth he not along like a dancer?

Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra become; anawakened one is Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of thesleepers?

As in the sea hast thoulived in solitude, and it hath borne theeup. Alas, wilt thou now go ashore? Alas, wilt thou again drag thybody thyself?”

Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.”

“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into theforest and the desert? Was it not because I lovedmen far toowell?

Now I love God: men, I do not love. Man is a thing too imperfectfor me. Love to man would be fatal to me.”

Zarathustra answered: “What spake I of love! I am bringinggifts unto men.”

“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Takerather partof their load, and carry it along with them—thatwill be most agreeable unto them: if only it be agreeable untothee!

If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them no more than analms, and let them also beg for it!”

“No,” replied Zarathustra, “I giveno alms. Iam not poor enough for that.”

The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and spake thus: “Thensee to it that they accept thy treasures! They are distrustful ofanchorites, and do not believe that we come with gifts.

The fall of our footsteps ringeth toohollow through theirstreets. And just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a manabroad long before sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us:Where goeth the thief?

Go not to men, but stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals!Why not be like me—a bear amongst bears, a bird amongstbirds?”

“And what doeth the saint in the forest?” askedZarathustra.

The saint answered: “I make hymns and sing them; and inmaking hymns I laugh and weep and mumble: thus do I praise God.

With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise theGod who is my God. But what dost thou bring us as agift?”

When Zarathustra had heard these words, he bowed to the saintand said: “What should I have to give thee! Let me ratherhurry hence lest I take aught away fromthee!”—And thusthey parted from one another, the old man and Zarathustra, laughinglike schoolboys.

When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart:“Could it be possible! This old saint in the forest hath notyet heard of it, that GOD IS DEAD!”

3.

When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth theforest, he found many people assembled in the market-place; for ithad been announced that a rope-dancer would give a performance. AndZarathustra spake thus unto the people:

I TEACH YOUTHE SUPERMAN. Man is something that is to besurpassed. What have ye done to surpass man?

All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves:and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather goback to the beast than surpass man?

What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. Andjust the same shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, athing of shame.

Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within youis still worm. Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of anape than any of the apes.

Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid ofplant and phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants?

Lo, I teach you the Superman!

The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say:TheSuperman SHALL BE the meaning of the earth!

I conjure you, my brethren, REMAIN TRUE TO THE EARTH, andbelieve not those who speak unto you of superearthly hopes!Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not.

Despisers of life are they, decayingones and poisoned onesthemselves, of whom the earth is weary: so away with them!

Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but Goddied, and therewith also those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earthis now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate theheart of the unknowablehigher than the meaning of the earth!

Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then thatcontempt was the supreme thing:—the soul wished the bodymeagre, ghastly, and famished. Thus it thought to escape from thebody andthe earth.

Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; andcruelty was the delight of that soul!

But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body sayabout your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution andwretched self-complacency?

Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receivea polluted stream without becoming impure.

Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that sea; in him can yourgreat contempt be submerged.

What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour ofgreat contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becomethloathsome unto you, and so also your reason and virtue.

The hour when ye say: “What good is my happiness! It ispoverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency. But myhappiness should justify existence itself!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my reason! Doth itlong for knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty andpollution and wretched self-complacency!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my virtue! As yet ithath notmade me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad!It is all poverty and pollution and wretchedself-complacency!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my justice! I do notsee that I am fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour andfuel!”

Thehour when ye say: “What good is my pity! Is not pitythe cross on which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is nota crucifixion.”

Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! wouldthat I had heard you crying thus!

It is not your sin—it isyour self-satisfaction that criethunto heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven!

Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is thefrenzy with which ye should be inoculated?

Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that lightning, he is thatfrenzy!—

When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called out:“We have now heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is time nowfor us to see him!” And all the people laughed atZarathustra. But the rope-dancer, who thought the words applied tohim, began his performance.

4.

Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then hespake thus:

Man is a rope stretched between the animal and theSuperman—a rope over an abyss.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerouslooking-back, a dangerous trembling and halting.

What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: whatis lovable in man is that he is an OVER-GOING and a DOWN-GOING.

I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, forthey are the over-goers.

I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers,and arrows of longing for the other shore.

I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond the stars forgoing down and being sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to theearth, that the earth of the Superman may hereafter arrive.

I love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh to know inorder that the Superman may hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his owndown-going.

I love him who laboureth and inventeth, that he may buildthehouse for the Superman, and prepare for him earth, animal, andplant: for thus seeketh he his own down-going.

I love him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will todown-going, and an arrow of longing.

I love him who reserveth no share of spirit forhimself, butwanteth to be wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus walketh he asspirit over the bridge.

I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny:thus, for the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on, or liveno more.

I love him whodesireth not too many virtues. One virtue is moreof a virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one’sdestiny to cling to.

I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and dothnot give back: for he always bestoweth, and desireth not tokeep forhimself.

I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, andwho then asketh: “Am I a dishonest player?”—forhe is willing to succumb.

I love him who scattereth golden words in advance of his deeds,and always doeth more than he promiseth: for he seeketh his owndown-going.

I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth thepast ones: for he is willing to succumb through the presentones.

I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God:for he must succumb through the wrath of his God.

I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and maysuccumb through a small matter: thus goeth he willingly over thebridge.

I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgetteth himself,and all things are in him: thus all things become hisdown-going.

I love him who is of a free spirit and a free heart: thus is hishead only the bowels of his heart; his heart, however, causeth hisdown-going.

I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out ofthe dark cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming ofthe lightning, and succumb as heralds.

Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of thecloud: the lightning, however, is the SUPERMAN.—

5.

When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at thepeople, and was silent. “There they stand,” said he tohis heart; “there they laugh: they understand me not; I amnot the mouth for these ears.

Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hearwith their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitentialpreachers? Or do they only believe the stammerer?

They have something whereof they are proud. What do they callit, that which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; itdistinguisheth them from the goatherds.

They dislike, therefore, to hear of ‘contempt’ ofthemselves. So I will appeal to their pride.

I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that,however, is THE LAST MAN!”

And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people:

It is time for man to fix his goal. It is timefor man to plantthe germ of his highest hope.

Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one daybe poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able togrow thereon.

Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch thearrow of his longing beyond man—and the string of his bowwill have unlearned to whizz!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to adancing star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.

Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birthto any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicableman, who can no longer despise himself.

Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN.

“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What isa star?”—so asketh the last man and blinketh.

Theearth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth thelast man who maketh everything small. His species is ineradicablelike that of the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest.

“We have discovered happiness”—say the lastmen, and blink thereby.

Theyhave left the regions where it is hard to live; for theyneed warmth. One still loveth one’s neighbour and rubbethagainst him; for one needeth warmth.

Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: theywalk warily. He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones ormen!

A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. Andmuch poison at last for a pleasant death.

One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is carefullest the pastime should hurt one.

One no longer becometh poor orrich; both are too burdensome. Whostill wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to obey? Both are tooburdensome.

No shepherd, and one herd! Every one wanteth the same; every oneis equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into themadhouse.

“Formerly all the world was insane,”—say thesubtlest of them, and blink thereby.

They are clever and know all that hath happened: so there is noend to their raillery. People still fall out, but are soonreconciled—otherwise it spoileth their stomachs.

They have their little pleasures for the day, and their littlepleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health.

“We have discovered happiness,”—say the lastmen, and blink thereby.—

And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra, which is alsocalled “The Prologue”: for at this point the shoutingand mirth of the multitude interrupted him. “Give us thislast man, O Zarathustra,”—they calledout—“make us into these last men! Then will we makethee a present of the Superman!” And all the peopleexultedand smacked their lips. Zarathustra, however, turned sad,and said to his heart:

“They understand me not: I am not the mouth for theseears.

Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too much haveI hearkened unto the brooks and trees: now do I speak unto them asunto the goatherds.

Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning.But they think me cold, and a mocker with terrible jests.

And now do they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh theyhate me too. There is ice in theirlaughter.”

6.

Then, however, something happened which made every mouth muteand every eye fixed. In the meantime, of course, the rope-dancerhad commenced his performance: he had come out at a little door,and was going along the rope which was stretchedbetween two towers,so that it hung above the market-place and the people. When he wasjust midway across, the little door opened once more, and agaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon sprang out, and went rapidlyafter the first one. “Go on, halt-foot,” cried hisfrightful voice, “go on, lazy-bones, interloper,sallow-face!—lest I tickle thee with my heel! What dost thouhere between the towers? In the tower is the place for thee, thoushouldst be locked up; to one better than thyself thou blockest theway!”—And with every word he came nearer andnearer thefirst one. When, however, he was but a step behind, there happenedthe frightful thing which made every mouth mute and every eyefixed—he uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped over theother who was inhis way. The latter, however, when he thus saw hisrival triumph, lost at the same time his head and his footing onthe rope; he threw his pole away, and shot downwards faster thanit, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The market-placeand the people were like the sea when the storm cometh on: they allflew apart and in disorder, especially where the body was about tofall.

Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and just beside himfell the body, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead.After a while consciousness returned to the shattered man, and hesaw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What art thou doingthere?” said he at last, “I knew long ago that thedevil would trip me up. Now he draggeth me to hell: wilt thouprevent him?”

“On mine honour, my friend,” answered Zarathustra,“there is nothing of all that whereof thou speakest: there isno devil and no hell. Thy soul will be dead even sooner than thybody: fear, therefore, nothing any more!”

The man looked up distrustfully. “If thou speakest thetruth,” said he, “I lose nothing when I lose my life. Iam not much more than an animal which hath been taught to dance byblows and scanty fare.”

“Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “thou hastmade danger thy calling; therein there is nothingcontemptible. Nowthou perishest by thy calling: therefore will I bury thee with mineown hands.”

When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not replyfurther; but he moved his hand as if he sought the hand ofZarathustra in gratitude.

7.

Meanwhilethe evening came on, and the market-place veiled itselfin gloom. Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terrorbecome fatigued. Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the deadman on the ground, absorbed in thought: so he forgot the time. Butat last it became night, and a cold wind blew upon the lonely one.Then arose Zarathustra and said to his heart:

Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made to-day! It isnot a man he hath caught, but a corpse.

Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon maybe fateful to it.

I want to teach men the sense of their existence, which is theSuperman, the lightning out of the dark cloud—man.

But still am I far from them, and my sense speaketh not untotheir sense. To men I am stillsomething between a fool and acorpse.

Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways of Zarathustra. Come,thou cold and stiff companion! I carry thee to the place where Ishall bury thee with mine own hands.

8.

When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he put the corpseupon his shoulders and set out on his way. Yet had he not gone ahundred steps, when there stole a man up to him and whispered inhis ear—and lo! he that spake was the buffoon from the tower.“Leave thistown, O Zarathustra,” said he,“thereare too many here who hate thee. The good and just hatethee, and call thee their enemy and despiser; the believers in theorthodox belief hate thee, and call thee a danger to the multitude.It was thy good fortune to be laughed at: and verily thouspakestlike a buffoon. It was thy good fortune to associate withthe dead dog; by so humiliating thyself thou hast saved thy lifeto-day. Depart, however, from this town,—or tomorrow I shalljump over thee, a living man over a dead one.” And when hehad said this, the buffoon vanished; Zarathustra, however, went onthrough the dark streets.

At the gate of the town the grave-diggers met him: they shonetheir torch on his face, and, recognising Zarathustra, they sorelyderided him. “Zarathustra is carrying away thedead dog: afine thing that Zarathustra hath turned a grave-digger! For ourhands are too cleanly for that roast. Will Zarathustra steal thebite from the devil? Well then, good luck to the repast! If onlythe devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra!—he willsteal them both, he will eat them both!” And they laughedamong themselves, and put their heads together.

Zarathustra made no answer thereto, but went on his way. When hehad gone on for two hours, past forests and swamps, he had heardtoo much ofthe hungry howling of the wolves, and he himself becamea-hungry. So he halted at a lonely house in which a light wasburning.

“Hunger attacketh me,” said Zarathustra, “likea robber. Among forests and swamps my hunger attacketh me, and latein the night.

“Strange humours hath my hunger. Often it cometh to meonly after a repast, and all day it hath failed to come: where hathit been?”

And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. Anold man appeared, who carried a light, and asked: “Who comethunto me and my bad sleep?”

“A living man and a dead one,” said Zarathustra.“Give me something to eat and drink, I forgot it during theday. He that feedeth the hungry refresheth his own soul, saithwisdom.”

The old man withdrew, but came back immediately and offeredZarathustra bread and wine. “A bad country for thehungry,” said he; “that is why I live here. Animal andman come unto me, the anchorite. But bid thy companion eat anddrink also, he is wearier than thou.” Zarathustra answered:“My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade himto eat.” “That doth not concern me,” said the oldman sullenly; “he that knocketh at my door must take what Ioffer him. Eat, and fare ye well!”—

Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for two hours, trustingtothe path and the light of the stars: for he was an experiencednight-walker, and liked to look into the face of all that slept.When the morning dawned, however, Zarathustra found himself in athick forest, and no path was any longer visible. He then put thedead man in a hollow tree at his head—for he wanted toprotect him from the wolves—and laid himself down on theground and moss. And immediately he fell asleep, tired in body, butwith a tranquil soul.

9.

Long slept Zarathustra; and not only the rosy dawn passed overhis head, but also the morning. At last, however, his eyes opened,and amazedly he gazed into the forest and the stillness, amazedlyhe gazed into himself. Then he arose quickly, like a seafarer whoall atonce seeth the land; and he shouted for joy: for he saw a newtruth. And he spake thus to his heart:

A light hath dawned upon me: I need companions—livingones; not dead companions and corpses, which I carry with me whereI will.

But I need living companions, who will follow me becausetheywant to follow themselves—and to the place where I will.

A light hath dawned upon me. Not to the people is Zarathustra tospeak, but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be the herd’sherdsman and hound!

To allure many from the herd—for that purpose have I come.The people and the herd must be angry with me: a robber shallZarathustra be called by the herdsmen.

Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the good and just.Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the believers in theorthodox belief.

Behold the good and just! Whom do they hate most? Him whobreaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, thelawbreaker:—he, however, is the creator.

Behold the believers of all beliefs! Whom do they hate most? Himwho breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, thelaw-breaker—he, however, is the creator.

Companions, the creator seeketh, not corpses—and not herdsor believers either. Fellow-creators the creatorseeketh—those who grave new values on new tables.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and fellow-reapers: foreverything is ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacketh thehundred sickles: so he plucketh the ears of corn and is vexed.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and such as know how to whettheir sickles. Destroyers, will they be called, anddespisers ofgood and evil. But they are the reapers and rejoicers.

Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh; fellow-reapers andfellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do withherds and herdsmen and corpses!

And thou, my first companion, restin peace! Well have I buriedthee in thy hollow tree; well have I hid thee from the wolves.

But I part from thee; the time hath arrived. ‘Twixt rosydawn and rosy dawn there came unto me a new truth.

I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to be a grave-digger. Notany more will I discourse unto the people; for the last time have Ispoken unto the dead.

With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers will Iassociate: the rainbow will I show them, and all the stairs to theSuperman.

To the lone-dwellers willI sing my song, and to thetwain-dwellers; and unto him who hath still ears for the unheard,will I make the heart heavy with my happiness.

I make for my goal, I follow my course; over the loitering andtardy will I leap. Thus let my on-going be their down-going!

10.

This had Zarathustra said to his heart when the sun stood atnoon-tide. Then he looked inquiringly aloft,—for he heardabove him the sharp call of a bird. And behold! An eaglesweptthrough the air in wide circles, and on it hung a serpent, notlikea prey, but like a friend: for it kept itself coiled round theeagle’s neck.

“They are mine animals,” said Zarathustra, andrejoiced in his heart.

“The proudest animal under the sun, and the wisest animalunder the sun,—they have come out to reconnoitre.

They want to know whether Zarathustra still liveth. Verily, do Istill live?

More dangerous have I found it among men than among animals; indangerous paths goeth Zarathustra. Let mine animals lead me!

When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered thewords of thesaint in the forest. Then he sighed and spake thus to hisheart:

“Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise from thevery heart, like my serpent!

But I am asking the impossible. Therefore do I ask my pride togo always with my wisdom!

And if my wisdom should some day forsake me:—alas! itloveth to fly away!—may my pride then fly with myfolly!”

Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.

ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES.

I. THE THREE METAMORPHOSES.

Three metamorphoses of the spirit do Idesignate to you: how thespirit becometh a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last achild.

Many heavy things are there for the spirit, the strongload-bearing spirit in which reverence dwelleth: for the heavy andthe heaviest longeth its strength.

What is heavy? so asketh the load-bearing spirit; then kneelethit down like the camel, and wanteth to be well laden.

What is the heaviest thing, ye heroes? asketh the load-bearingspirit, that I may take it upon me and rejoice in my strength.

Is it not this: To humiliate oneself in order to mortifyone’s pride? To exhibit one’s folly in order to mock atone’s wisdom?

Or is it this: To desert our cause when it celebrateth itstriumph? To ascend high mountains to tempt the tempter?

Or is it this: To feed onthe acorns and grass of knowledge, andfor the sake of truth to suffer hunger of soul?

Or is it this: To be sick and dismiss comforters, and makefriends of the deaf, who never hear thy requests?

Or is it this: To go into foul water when it is the wateroftruth, and not disclaim cold frogs and hot toads?

Or is it this: To love those who despise us, and giveone’s hand to the phantom when it is going to frightenus?

All these heaviest things the load-bearing spirit taketh uponitself: and like the camel,which, when laden, hasteneth into thewilderness, so hasteneth the spirit into its wilderness.

But in the loneliest wilderness happeneth the secondmetamorphosis: here the spirit becometh a lion; freedom will itcapture, and lordship in its own wilderness.

Its last Lord it here seeketh: hostile will it be to him, and toits last God; for victory will it struggle with the greatdragon.

What is the great dragon which the spirit is no longer inclinedto call Lord and God? “Thou-shalt,” is the greatdragoncalled. But the spirit of the lion saith, “Iwill.”

“Thou-shalt,” lieth in its path, sparkling withgold—a scale-covered beast; and on every scale glitterethgolden, “Thou shalt!”

The values of a thousand years glitter on those scales, and thusspeaketh the mightiest of all dragons: “All the values ofthings—glitter on me.

All values have already been created, and all createdvalues—do I represent. Verily, there shall be no ‘Iwill’ any more. Thus speaketh the dragon.

My brethren, wherefore is there need ofthe lion in the spirit?Why sufficeth not the beast of burden, which renounceth and isreverent?

To create new values—that, even the lion cannot yetaccomplish: but to create itself freedom for newcreating—that can the might of the lion do.

To create itself freedom, and give a holy Nay even unto duty:for that, my brethren, there is need of the lion.

To assume the right to new values—that is the mostformidable assumption for a load-bearing and reverent spirit.Verily, unto such a spirit it is preying, and the work of a beastof prey.

As its holiest, it once loved “Thou-shalt”: now isit forced to find illusion and arbitrariness even in the holiestthings, that it may capture freedom from its love: the lion isneeded for this capture.

But tell me, my brethren, what the child can do, which even thelion could not do? Why hath the preying lion still to become achild?

Innocence is the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, agame, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea.

Aye, for the game of creating, my brethren, there is needed aholy Yea unto life: ITS OWN will, willeth now the spirit; HIS OWNworld winneth the world’s outcast.

Three metamorphoses of the spirit have I designated to you: howthe spirit became a camel, the camel a lion, and thelion at last achild.—

Thus spake Zarathustra. And at that time he abode in the townwhich is called The Pied Cow.

II. THE ACADEMIC CHAIRS OF VIRTUE.

People commended unto Zarathustra a wise man, as one who coulddiscourse well about sleep and virtue: greatly was he honoured andrewarded for it, and all the youths sat before his chair. To himwent Zarathustra, and sat among the youths before his chair. Andthus spake the wise man:

Respect and modesty in presence of sleep! That is the firstthing! And to go out of the way of all who sleep badly and keepawake at night!

Modest is even the thief in presence of sleep: he alwaysstealeth softly through the night. Immodest, however, is thenight-watchman; immodestly he carrieth his horn.

No small art is it to sleep: it is necessary for that purpose tokeep awake all day.

Ten times a day must thou overcome thyself: that causethwholesome weariness, and is poppy to the soul.

Ten times must thou reconcile again with thyself; for overcomingis bitterness, andbadly sleep the unreconciled.

Ten truths must thou find during the day; otherwise wilt thouseek truth during the night, and thy soul will have beenhungry.

Ten times must thou laugh during the day, and be cheerful;otherwise thy stomach, the father ofaffliction, will disturb theein the night.

Few people know it, but one must have all the virtues in orderto sleep well. Shall I bear false witness? Shall I commitadultery?

Shall I covet my neighbour’s maidservant? All that wouldill accord with good sleep.

And even if one have all the virtues, there is still one thingneedful: to send the virtues themselves to sleep at the righttime.

That they may not quarrel with one another, the good females!And about thee, thou unhappy one!

Peace with God and thy neighbour: so desireth good sleep. Andpeace also with thy neighbour’s devil! Otherwise it willhaunt thee in the night.

Honour to the government, and obedience, and also to the crookedgovernment! So desireth good sleep. How can I help it, if powerlike towalk on crooked legs?

He who leadeth his sheep to the greenest pasture, shall alwaysbe for me the best shepherd: so doth it accord with good sleep.

Many honours I want not, nor great treasures: they excite thespleen. But it is bad sleeping without a goodname and a littletreasure.

A small company is more welcome to me than a bad one: but theymust come and go at the right time. So doth it accord with goodsleep.

Well, also, do the poor in spirit please me: they promote sleep.Blessed are they, especiallyif one always give in to them.

Thus passeth the day unto the virtuous. When night cometh, thentake I good care not to summon sleep. It disliketh to besummoned—sleep, the lord of the virtues!

But I think of what I have done and thought during the day. Thusruminating, patient as a cow, I ask myself: What were thy tenovercomings?

And what were the ten reconciliations, and the ten truths, andthe ten laughters with which my heart enjoyed itself?

Thus pondering, and cradled by forty thoughts, it overtakethmeall at once—sleep, the unsummoned, the lord of thevirtues.

Sleep tappeth on mine eye, and it turneth heavy. Sleep touchethmy mouth, and it remaineth open.

Verily, on soft soles doth it come to me, the dearest ofthieves, and stealeth from me my thoughts: stupid do I then stand,like this academic chair.

But not much longer do I then stand: I already lie.—

When Zarathustra heard the wise man thus speak, he laughed inhis heart: for thereby had a light dawned upon him. And thus spakehe to his heart:

A fool seemeth this wise man with his forty thoughts: but Ibelieve he knoweth well how to sleep.

Happy even is he who liveth near this wise man! Such sleep iscontagious—even through a thick wall it is contagious.

A magic resideth even in his academic chair.And not in vain didthe youths sit before the preacher of virtue.

His wisdom is to keep awake in order to sleep well. And verily,if life had no sense, and had I to choose nonsense, this would bethe desirablest nonsense for me also.

Now know I well whatpeople sought formerly above all else whenthey sought teachers of virtue. Good sleep they sought forthemselves, and poppy-head virtues to promote it!

To all those belauded sages of the academic chairs, wisdom wassleep without dreams: they knew no highersignificance of life.

Even at present, to be sure, there are some like this preacherof virtue, and not always so honourable: but their time is past.And not much longer do they stand: there they already lie.

Blessed are those drowsy ones: for they shallsoon nod tosleep.—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

III. BACKWORLDSMEN.

Once on a time, Zarathustra also cast his fancy beyond man, likeall backworldsmen. The work of a suffering and tortured God, didthe world then seem to me.

The dream—and diction—of aGod, did the world thenseem to me; coloured vapours before the eyes of a divinelydissatisfied one.

Good and evil, and joy and woe, and I and thou—colouredvapours did they seem to me before creative eyes. The creatorwished to look away from himself,—thereupon he created theworld.

Intoxicating joy is it for the sufferer to look away from hissuffering and forget himself. Intoxicating joy and self-forgetting,did the world once seem to me.</ [...]