Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None - 10

And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity and ill-humour, and taketh
revenge on whatever doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.
Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a torturer; and on all
that is capable of suffering it taketh revenge, because it cannot go
backward.
This, yea, this alone is REVENGE itself: the Will’s antipathy to time,
and its “It was.”
Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto
all humanity, that this folly acquired spirit!
THE SPIRIT OF REVENGE: my friends, that hath hitherto been man’s best
contemplation; and where there was suffering, it was claimed there was
always penalty.
“Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a
good conscience.
And because in the willer himself there is suffering, because he cannot
will backwards—thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be
penalty!
And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last
madness preached: “Everything perisheth, therefore everything deserveth
to perish!”
“And this itself is justice, the law of time—that he must devour his
children:” thus did madness preach.
“Morally are things ordered according to justice and penalty. Oh, where
is there deliverance from the flux of things and from the ‘existence’ of
penalty?” Thus did madness preach.
“Can there be deliverance when there is eternal justice? Alas,
unrollable is the stone, ‘It was’: eternal must also be all penalties!”
Thus did madness preach.
“No deed can be annihilated: how could it be undone by the penalty!
This, this is what is eternal in the ‘existence’ of penalty, that
existence also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!
Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing become
non-Willing—:” but ye know, my brethren, this fabulous song of madness!
Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: “The
Will is a creator.”
All “It was” is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance—until the
creating Will saith thereto: “But thus would I have it.”—
Until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus do I will it! Thus
shall I will it!”
But did it ever speak thus? And when doth this take place? Hath the Will
been unharnessed from its own folly?
Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? Hath it
unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing?
And who hath taught it reconciliation with time, and something higher
than all reconciliation?
Something higher than all reconciliation must the Will will which is the
Will to Power—: but how doth that take place? Who hath taught it also
to will backwards?
—But at this point in his discourse it chanced that Zarathustra
suddenly paused, and looked like a person in the greatest alarm. With
terror in his eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances pierced as
with arrows their thoughts and arrear-thoughts. But after a brief space
he again laughed, and said soothedly:
“It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult—
especially for a babbler.”—
Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the
conversation and had covered his face during the time; but when he heard
Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity, and said slowly:
“But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto us than unto his
disciples?”
Zarathustra answered: “What is there to be wondered at! With hunchbacks
one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!”
“Very good,” said the hunchback; “and with pupils one may well tell
tales out of school.
But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto his pupils—than unto
himself?”—


XLIII. MANLY PRUDENCE.

Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible!
The declivity, where the gaze shooteth DOWNWARDS, and the hand graspeth
UPWARDS. There doth the heart become giddy through its double will.
Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart’s double will?
This, this is MY declivity and my danger, that my gaze shooteth towards
the summit, and my hand would fain clutch and lean—on the depth!
To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind myself to man, because
I am pulled upwards to the Superman: for thither doth mine other will
tend.
And THEREFORE do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not: that
my hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness.
I know not you men: this gloom and consolation is often spread around
me.
I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wisheth to deceive
me?
This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so
as not to be on my guard against deceivers.
Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how could man be an anchor to my
ball! Too easily would I be pulled upwards and away!
This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight.
And he who would not languish amongst men, must learn to drink out of
all glasses; and he who would keep clean amongst men, must know how to
wash himself even with dirty water.
And thus spake I often to myself for consolation: “Courage! Cheer up!
old heart! An unhappiness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as
thy—happiness!”
This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I am more forbearing to the
VAIN than to the proud.
Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? Where, however, pride
is wounded, there groweth up something better than pride.
That life may be fair to behold, its game must be well played; for that
purpose, however, it needeth good actors.
Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they play, and wish people
to be fond of beholding them—all their spirit is in this wish.
They represent themselves, they invent themselves; in their
neighbourhood I like to look upon life—it cureth of melancholy.
Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because they are the physicians
of my melancholy, and keep me attached to man as to a drama.
And further, who conceiveth the full depth of the modesty of the vain
man! I am favourable to him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty.
From you would he learn his belief in himself; he feedeth upon your
glances, he eateth praise out of your hands.
Your lies doth he even believe when you lie favourably about him: for in
its depths sigheth his heart: “What am _I_?”
And if that be the true virtue which is unconscious of itself—well, the
vain man is unconscious of his modesty!—
This is, however, my third manly prudence: I am not put out of conceit
with the WICKED by your timorousness.
I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun hatcheth: tigers and palms
and rattle-snakes.
Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood of the warm sun, and much
that is marvellous in the wicked.
In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so very wise, so found I
also human wickedness below the fame of it.
And oft did I ask with a shake of the head: Why still rattle, ye
rattle-snakes?
Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And the warmest south is
still undiscovered by man.
How many things are now called the worst wickedness, which are only
twelve feet broad and three months long! Some day, however, will greater
dragons come into the world.
For that the Superman may not lack his dragon, the superdragon that
is worthy of him, there must still much warm sun glow on moist virgin
forests!
Out of your wild cats must tigers have evolved, and out of your
poison-toads, crocodiles: for the good hunter shall have a good hunt!
And verily, ye good and just! In you there is much to be laughed at, and
especially your fear of what hath hitherto been called “the devil!”
So alien are ye in your souls to what is great, that to you the Superman
would be FRIGHTFUL in his goodness!
And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee from the solar-glow of the
wisdom in which the Superman joyfully batheth his nakedness!
Ye highest men who have come within my ken! this is my doubt of you, and
my secret laughter: I suspect ye would call my Superman—a devil!
Ah, I became tired of those highest and best ones: from their “height”
did I long to be up, out, and away to the Superman!
A horror came over me when I saw those best ones naked: then there grew
for me the pinions to soar away into distant futures.
Into more distant futures, into more southern souths than ever artist
dreamed of: thither, where Gods are ashamed of all clothes!
But disguised do I want to see YOU, ye neighbours and fellowmen, and
well-attired and vain and estimable, as “the good and just;”—
And disguised will I myself sit amongst you—that I may MISTAKE you and
myself: for that is my last manly prudence.—
Thus spake Zarathustra.


XLIV. THE STILLEST HOUR.

What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye see me troubled, driven
forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go—alas, to go away from YOU!
Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously
this time doth the bear go back to his cave!
What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth this?—Ah, mine angry mistress
wisheth it so; she spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to you?
Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me MY STILLEST HOUR: that is
the name of my terrible mistress.
And thus did it happen—for everything must I tell you, that your heart
may not harden against the suddenly departing one!
Do ye know the terror of him who falleth asleep?—
To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground giveth way under
him, and the dream beginneth.
This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour did
the ground give way under me: the dream began.
The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath—never did
I hear such stillness around me, so that my heart was terrified.
Then was there spoken unto me without voice: “THOU KNOWEST IT,
ZARATHUSTRA?”—
And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face:
but I was silent.
Then was there once more spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest it,
Zarathustra, but thou dost not speak it!”—
And at last I answered, like one defiant: “Yea, I know it, but I will
not speak it!”
Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou WILT not,
Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance!”—
And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: “Ah, I would indeed, but
how can I do it! Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my power!”
Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about
thyself, Zarathustra! Speak thy word, and succumb!”
And I answered: “Ah, is it MY word? Who am _I_? I await the worthier
one; I am not worthy even to succumb by it.”
Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about
thyself? Thou art not yet humble enough for me. Humility hath the
hardest skin.”—
And I answered: “What hath not the skin of my humility endured! At the
foot of my height do I dwell: how high are my summits, no one hath yet
told me. But well do I know my valleys.”
Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “O Zarathustra, he
who hath to remove mountains removeth also valleys and plains.”—
And I answered: “As yet hath my word not removed mountains, and what I
have spoken hath not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but not yet
have I attained unto them.”
Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What knowest thou
THEREOF! The dew falleth on the grass when the night is most silent.”—
And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in mine own
path; and certainly did my feet then tremble.
And thus did they speak unto me: Thou forgottest the path before, now
dost thou also forget how to walk!”
Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about
their mockery! Thou art one who hast unlearned to obey: now shalt thou
command!
Knowest thou not who is most needed by all? He who commandeth great
things.
To execute great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to
command great things.
This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou hast the power, and thou
wilt not rule.”—
And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice for all commanding.”
Then was there again spoken unto me as a whispering: “It is the stillest
words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps
guide the world.
O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus
wilt thou command, and in commanding go foremost.”—
And I answered: “I am ashamed.”
Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou must yet become
a child, and be without shame.
The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast thou become young: but
he who would become a child must surmount even his youth.”—
And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, however, did I say
what I had said at first. “I will not.”
Then did a laughing take place all around me. Alas, how that laughing
lacerated my bowels and cut into my heart!
And there was spoken unto me for the last time: “O Zarathustra, thy
fruits are ripe, but thou art not ripe for thy fruits!
So must thou go again into solitude: for thou shalt yet become
mellow.”—
And again was there a laughing, and it fled: then did it become still
around me, as with a double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground,
and the sweat flowed from my limbs.
—Now have ye heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude.
Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends.
But even this have ye heard from me, WHO is still the most reserved of
men—and will be so!
Ah, my friends! I should have something more to say unto you! I should
have something more to give unto you! Why do I not give it? Am I then a
niggard?—
When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these words, the violence of his
pain, and a sense of the nearness of his departure from his friends came
over him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew how to console him. In
the night, however, he went away alone and left his friends.


THIRD PART.

“Ye look aloft when ye long for exaltation, and I look downward because
I am exalted.
“Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted?
“He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays
and tragic realities.”—ZARATHUSTRA, I., “Reading and Writing.”


XLV. THE WANDERER.

Then, when it was about midnight, Zarathustra went his way over the
ridge of the isle, that he might arrive early in the morning at the
other coast; because there he meant to embark. For there was a good
roadstead there, in which foreign ships also liked to anchor: those
ships took many people with them, who wished to cross over from the
Happy Isles. So when Zarathustra thus ascended the mountain, he thought
on the way of his many solitary wanderings from youth onwards, and how
many mountains and ridges and summits he had already climbed.
I am a wanderer and mountain-climber, said he to his heart, I love not
the plains, and it seemeth I cannot long sit still.
And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience—a wandering
will be therein, and a mountain-climbing: in the end one experienceth
only oneself.
The time is now past when accidents could befall me; and what COULD now
fall to my lot which would not already be mine own!
It returneth only, it cometh home to me at last—mine own Self, and
such of it as hath been long abroad, and scattered among things and
accidents.
And one thing more do I know: I stand now before my last summit, and
before that which hath been longest reserved for me. Ah, my hardest path
must I ascend! Ah, I have begun my lonesomest wandering!
He, however, who is of my nature doth not avoid such an hour: the hour
that saith unto him: Now only dost thou go the way to thy greatness!
Summit and abyss—these are now comprised together!
Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now hath it become thy last refuge,
what was hitherto thy last danger!
Thou goest the way to thy greatness: it must now be thy best courage
that there is no longer any path behind thee!
Thou goest the way to thy greatness: here shall no one steal after thee!
Thy foot itself hath effaced the path behind thee, and over it standeth
written: Impossibility.
And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must thou learn to mount
upon thine own head: how couldst thou mount upward otherwise?
Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest
in thee become the hardest.
He who hath always much-indulged himself, sickeneth at last by his
much-indulgence. Praises on what maketh hardy! I do not praise the land
where butter and honey—flow!
To learn TO LOOK AWAY FROM oneself, is necessary in order to see MANY
THINGS:—this hardiness is needed by every mountain-climber.
He, however, who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he
ever see more of anything than its foreground!
But thou, O Zarathustra, wouldst view the ground of everything, and its
background: thus must thou mount even above thyself—up, upwards, until
thou hast even thy stars UNDER thee!
Yea! To look down upon myself, and even upon my stars: that only would I
call my SUMMIT, that hath remained for me as my LAST summit!—
Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while ascending, comforting his heart
with harsh maxims: for he was sore at heart as he had never been before.
And when he had reached the top of the mountain-ridge, behold, there
lay the other sea spread out before him: and he stood still and was
long silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and
starry.
I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Now
hath my last lonesomeness begun.
Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation!
Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now GO DOWN!
Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wandering:
therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended:
—Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest
flood! So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready.
Whence come the highest mountains? so did I once ask. Then did I learn
that they come out of the sea.
That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their
summits. Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.—
Thus spake Zarathustra on the ridge of the mountain where it was cold:
when, however, he came into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stood
alone amongst the cliffs, then had he become weary on his way, and
eagerer than ever before.
Everything as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and
strangely doth its eye gaze upon me.
But it breatheth warmly—I feel it. And I feel also that it dreameth. It
tosseth about dreamily on hard pillows.
Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evil
expectations?
Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myself
even for thy sake.
Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed, would I free
thee from evil dreams!—
And while Zarathustra thus spake, he laughed at himself with melancholy
and bitterness. What! Zarathustra, said he, wilt thou even sing
consolation to the sea?
Ah, thou amiable fool, Zarathustra, thou too-blindly confiding one! But
thus hast thou ever been: ever hast thou approached confidently all that
is terrible.
Every monster wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft
tuft on its paw—: and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it.
LOVE is the danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, IF IT ONLY
LIVE! Laughable, verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!—
Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed thereby a second time. Then,
however, he thought of his abandoned friends—and as if he had done them
a wrong with his thoughts, he upbraided himself because of his thoughts.
And forthwith it came to pass that the laugher wept—with anger and
longing wept Zarathustra bitterly.


XLVI. THE VISION AND THE ENIGMA.

1.
When it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board the
ship—for a man who came from the Happy Isles had gone on board along
with him,—there was great curiosity and expectation. But Zarathustra
kept silent for two days, and was cold and deaf with sadness; so that he
neither answered looks nor questions. On the evening of the second day,
however, he again opened his ears, though he still kept silent: for
there were many curious and dangerous things to be heard on board the
ship, which came from afar, and was to go still further. Zarathustra,
however, was fond of all those who make distant voyages, and dislike to
live without danger. And behold! when listening, his own tongue was
at last loosened, and the ice of his heart broke. Then did he begin to
speak thus:
To you, the daring venturers and adventurers, and whoever hath embarked
with cunning sails upon frightful seas,—
To you the enigma-intoxicated, the twilight-enjoyers, whose souls are
allured by flutes to every treacherous gulf:
—For ye dislike to grope at a thread with cowardly hand; and where ye
can DIVINE, there do ye hate to CALCULATE—
To you only do I tell the enigma that I SAW—the vision of the
lonesomest one.—
Gloomily walked I lately in corpse-coloured twilight—gloomily and
sternly, with compressed lips. Not only one sun had set for me.
A path which ascended daringly among boulders, an evil, lonesome path,
which neither herb nor shrub any longer cheered, a mountain-path,
crunched under the daring of my foot.
Mutely marching over the scornful clinking of pebbles, trampling the
stone that let it slip: thus did my foot force its way upwards.
Upwards:—in spite of the spirit that drew it downwards, towards the
abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and arch-enemy.
Upwards:—although it sat upon me, half-dwarf, half-mole; paralysed,
paralysing; dripping lead in mine ear, and thoughts like drops of lead
into my brain.
“O Zarathustra,” it whispered scornfully, syllable by syllable, “thou
stone of wisdom! Thou threwest thyself high, but every thrown stone
must—fall!
O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom, thou sling-stone, thou
star-destroyer! Thyself threwest thou so high,—but every thrown
stone—must fall!
Condemned of thyself, and to thine own stoning: O Zarathustra, far
indeed threwest thou thy stone—but upon THYSELF will it recoil!”
Then was the dwarf silent; and it lasted long. The silence, however,
oppressed me; and to be thus in pairs, one is verily lonesomer than when
alone!
I ascended, I ascended, I dreamt, I thought,—but everything oppressed
me. A sick one did I resemble, whom bad torture wearieth, and a worse
dream reawakeneth out of his first sleep.—
But there is something in me which I call courage: it hath hitherto
slain for me every dejection. This courage at last bade me stand still
and say: “Dwarf! Thou! Or I!”—
For courage is the best slayer,—courage which ATTACKETH: for in every
attack there is sound of triumph.
Man, however, is the most courageous animal: thereby hath he overcome
every animal. With sound of triumph hath he overcome every pain; human
pain, however, is the sorest pain.
Courage slayeth also giddiness at abysses: and where doth man not stand
at abysses! Is not seeing itself—seeing abysses?
Courage is the best slayer: courage slayeth also fellow-suffering.
Fellow-suffering, however, is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man
looketh into life, so deeply also doth he look into suffering.
Courage, however, is the best slayer, courage which attacketh: it
slayeth even death itself; for it saith: “WAS THAT life? Well! Once
more!”
In such speech, however, there is much sound of triumph. He who hath
ears to hear, let him hear.—
2.
“Halt, dwarf!” said I. “Either I—or thou! I, however, am the stronger
of the two:—thou knowest not mine abysmal thought! IT—couldst thou not
endure!”
Then happened that which made me lighter: for the dwarf sprang from my
shoulder, the prying sprite! And it squatted on a stone in front of me.
There was however a gateway just where we halted.
“Look at this gateway! Dwarf!” I continued, “it hath two faces. Two
roads come together here: these hath no one yet gone to the end of.
This long lane backwards: it continueth for an eternity. And that long
lane forward—that is another eternity.
They are antithetical to one another, these roads; they directly abut on
one another:—and it is here, at this gateway, that they come together.
The name of the gateway is inscribed above: ‘This Moment.’
But should one follow them further—and ever further and further
on, thinkest thou, dwarf, that these roads would be eternally
antithetical?”—
“Everything straight lieth,” murmured the dwarf, contemptuously. “All
truth is crooked; time itself is a circle.”
“Thou spirit of gravity!” said I wrathfully, “do not take it too
lightly! Or I shall let thee squat where thou squattest, Haltfoot,—and
I carried thee HIGH!”
“Observe,” continued I, “This Moment! From the gateway, This Moment,
there runneth a long eternal lane BACKWARDS: behind us lieth an
eternity.
Must not whatever CAN run its course of all things, have already run
along that lane? Must not whatever CAN happen of all things have already
happened, resulted, and gone by?
And if everything have already existed, what thinkest thou, dwarf, of
This Moment? Must not this gateway also—have already existed?
And are not all things closely bound together in such wise that This
Moment draweth all coming things after it? CONSEQUENTLY—itself also?
For whatever CAN run its course of all things, also in this long lane
OUTWARD—MUST it once more run!—
And this slow spider which creepeth in the moonlight, and this moonlight
itself, and thou and I in this gateway whispering together, whispering
of eternal things—must we not all have already existed?
—And must we not return and run in that other lane out before us, that
long weird lane—must we not eternally return?”—
Thus did I speak, and always more softly: for I was afraid of mine own
thoughts, and arrear-thoughts. Then, suddenly did I hear a dog HOWL near
me.
Had I ever heard a dog howl thus? My thoughts ran back. Yes! When I was
a child, in my most distant childhood:
—Then did I hear a dog howl thus. And saw it also, with hair bristling,
its head upwards, trembling in the stillest midnight, when even dogs
believe in ghosts:
—So that it excited my commiseration. For just then went the full moon,
silent as death, over the house; just then did it stand still, a glowing
globe—at rest on the flat roof, as if on some one’s property:—
Thereby had the dog been terrified: for dogs believe in thieves and
ghosts. And when I again heard such howling, then did it excite my
commiseration once more.
Where was now the dwarf? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the
whispering? Had I dreamt? Had I awakened? ‘Twixt rugged rocks did I
suddenly stand alone, dreary in the dreariest moonlight.
BUT THERE LAY A MAN! And there! The dog leaping, bristling, whining—now
did it see me coming—then did it howl again, then did it CRY:—had I
ever heard a dog cry so for help?
And verily, what I saw, the like had I never seen. A young shepherd did
I see, writhing, choking, quivering, with distorted countenance, and
with a heavy black serpent hanging out of his mouth.
Had I ever seen so much loathing and pale horror on one countenance?
He had perhaps gone to sleep? Then had the serpent crawled into his
throat—there had it bitten itself fast.