Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None - 11

My hand pulled at the serpent, and pulled:—in vain! I failed to pull
the serpent out of his throat. Then there cried out of me: “Bite! Bite!
Its head off! Bite!”—so cried it out of me; my horror, my hatred, my
loathing, my pity, all my good and my bad cried with one voice out of
me.—
Ye daring ones around me! Ye venturers and adventurers, and whoever
of you have embarked with cunning sails on unexplored seas! Ye
enigma-enjoyers!
Solve unto me the enigma that I then beheld, interpret unto me the
vision of the lonesomest one!
For it was a vision and a foresight:—WHAT did I then behold in parable?
And WHO is it that must come some day?
WHO is the shepherd into whose throat the serpent thus crawled? WHO is
the man into whose throat all the heaviest and blackest will thus crawl?
—The shepherd however bit as my cry had admonished him; he bit with a
strong bite! Far away did he spit the head of the serpent—: and sprang
up.—
No longer shepherd, no longer man—a transfigured being, a
light-surrounded being, that LAUGHED! Never on earth laughed a man as HE
laughed!
O my brethren, I heard a laughter which was no human laughter,—and now
gnaweth a thirst at me, a longing that is never allayed.
My longing for that laughter gnaweth at me: oh, how can I still endure
to live! And how could I endure to die at present!—
Thus spake Zarathustra.


XLVII. INVOLUNTARY BLISS.

With such enigmas and bitterness in his heart did Zarathustra sail o’er
the sea. When, however, he was four day-journeys from the Happy
Isles and from his friends, then had he surmounted all his pain—:
triumphantly and with firm foot did he again accept his fate. And then
talked Zarathustra in this wise to his exulting conscience:
Alone am I again, and like to be so, alone with the pure heaven, and the
open sea; and again is the afternoon around me.
On an afternoon did I find my friends for the first time; on an
afternoon, also, did I find them a second time:—at the hour when all
light becometh stiller.
For whatever happiness is still on its way ‘twixt heaven and earth, now
seeketh for lodging a luminous soul: WITH HAPPINESS hath all light now
become stiller.
O afternoon of my life! Once did my happiness also descend to the valley
that it might seek a lodging: then did it find those open hospitable
souls.
O afternoon of my life! What did I not surrender that I might have
one thing: this living plantation of my thoughts, and this dawn of my
highest hope!
Companions did the creating one once seek, and children of HIS hope: and
lo, it turned out that he could not find them, except he himself should
first create them.
Thus am I in the midst of my work, to my children going, and from
them returning: for the sake of his children must Zarathustra perfect
himself.
For in one’s heart one loveth only one’s child and one’s work; and where
there is great love to oneself, then is it the sign of pregnancy: so
have I found it.
Still are my children verdant in their first spring, standing nigh one
another, and shaken in common by the winds, the trees of my garden and
of my best soil.
And verily, where such trees stand beside one another, there ARE Happy
Isles!
But one day will I take them up, and put each by itself alone: that it
may learn lonesomeness and defiance and prudence.
Gnarled and crooked and with flexible hardness shall it then stand by
the sea, a living lighthouse of unconquerable life.
Yonder where the storms rush down into the sea, and the snout of the
mountain drinketh water, shall each on a time have his day and night
watches, for HIS testing and recognition.
Recognised and tested shall each be, to see if he be of my type and
lineage:—if he be master of a long will, silent even when he speaketh,
and giving in such wise that he TAKETH in giving:—
—So that he may one day become my companion, a fellow-creator and
fellow-enjoyer with Zarathustra:—such a one as writeth my will on my
tables, for the fuller perfection of all things.
And for his sake and for those like him, must I perfect MYSELF:
therefore do I now avoid my happiness, and present myself to every
misfortune—for MY final testing and recognition.
And verily, it were time that I went away; and the wanderer’s shadow and
the longest tedium and the stillest hour—have all said unto me: “It is
the highest time!”
The word blew to me through the keyhole and said “Come!” The door sprang
subtlely open unto me, and said “Go!”
But I lay enchained to my love for my children: desire spread this
snare for me—the desire for love—that I should become the prey of my
children, and lose myself in them.
Desiring—that is now for me to have lost myself. I POSSESS YOU, MY
CHILDREN! In this possessing shall everything be assurance and nothing
desire.
But brooding lay the sun of my love upon me, in his own juice stewed
Zarathustra,—then did shadows and doubts fly past me.
For frost and winter I now longed: “Oh, that frost and winter would
again make me crack and crunch!” sighed I:—then arose icy mist out of
me.
My past burst its tomb, many pains buried alive woke up—: fully slept
had they merely, concealed in corpse-clothes.
So called everything unto me in signs: “It is time!” But I—heard not,
until at last mine abyss moved, and my thought bit me.
Ah, abysmal thought, which art MY thought! When shall I find strength to
hear thee burrowing, and no longer tremble?
To my very throat throbbeth my heart when I hear thee burrowing! Thy
muteness even is like to strangle me, thou abysmal mute one!
As yet have I never ventured to call thee UP; it hath been enough that
I—have carried thee about with me! As yet have I not been strong
enough for my final lion-wantonness and playfulness.
Sufficiently formidable unto me hath thy weight ever been: but one day
shall I yet find the strength and the lion’s voice which will call thee
up!
When I shall have surmounted myself therein, then will I surmount myself
also in that which is greater; and a VICTORY shall be the seal of my
perfection!—
Meanwhile do I sail along on uncertain seas; chance flattereth me,
smooth-tongued chance; forward and backward do I gaze—, still see I no
end.
As yet hath the hour of my final struggle not come to me—or doth it
come to me perhaps just now? Verily, with insidious beauty do sea and
life gaze upon me round about:
O afternoon of my life! O happiness before eventide! O haven upon high
seas! O peace in uncertainty! How I distrust all of you!
Verily, distrustful am I of your insidious beauty! Like the lover am I,
who distrusteth too sleek smiling.
As he pusheth the best-beloved before him—tender even in severity, the
jealous one—, so do I push this blissful hour before me.
Away with thee, thou blissful hour! With thee hath there come to me an
involuntary bliss! Ready for my severest pain do I here stand:—at the
wrong time hast thou come!
Away with thee, thou blissful hour! Rather harbour there—with my
children! Hasten! and bless them before eventide with MY happiness!
There, already approacheth eventide: the sun sinketh. Away—my
happiness!—
Thus spake Zarathustra. And he waited for his misfortune the whole
night; but he waited in vain. The night remained clear and calm, and
happiness itself came nigher and nigher unto him. Towards morning,
however, Zarathustra laughed to his heart, and said mockingly:
“Happiness runneth after me. That is because I do not run after women.
Happiness, however, is a woman.”


XLVIII. BEFORE SUNRISE.

O heaven above me, thou pure, thou deep heaven! Thou abyss of light!
Gazing on thee, I tremble with divine desires.
Up to thy height to toss myself—that is MY depth! In thy purity to hide
myself—that is MINE innocence!
The God veileth his beauty: thus hidest thou thy stars. Thou speakest
not: THUS proclaimest thou thy wisdom unto me.
Mute o’er the raging sea hast thou risen for me to-day; thy love and thy
modesty make a revelation unto my raging soul.
In that thou camest unto me beautiful, veiled in thy beauty, in that
thou spakest unto me mutely, obvious in thy wisdom:
Oh, how could I fail to divine all the modesty of thy soul! BEFORE the
sun didst thou come unto me—the lonesomest one.
We have been friends from the beginning: to us are grief, gruesomeness,
and ground common; even the sun is common to us.
We do not speak to each other, because we know too much—: we keep
silent to each other, we smile our knowledge to each other.
Art thou not the light of my fire? Hast thou not the sister-soul of mine
insight?
Together did we learn everything; together did we learn to ascend beyond
ourselves to ourselves, and to smile uncloudedly:—
—Uncloudedly to smile down out of luminous eyes and out of miles of
distance, when under us constraint and purpose and guilt steam like
rain.
And wandered I alone, for WHAT did my soul hunger by night and in
labyrinthine paths? And climbed I mountains, WHOM did I ever seek, if
not thee, upon mountains?
And all my wandering and mountain-climbing: a necessity was it merely,
and a makeshift of the unhandy one:—to FLY only, wanteth mine entire
will, to fly into THEE!
And what have I hated more than passing clouds, and whatever tainteth
thee? And mine own hatred have I even hated, because it tainted thee!
The passing clouds I detest—those stealthy cats of prey: they take
from thee and me what is common to us—the vast unbounded Yea- and
Amen-saying.
These mediators and mixers we detest—the passing clouds: those
half-and-half ones, that have neither learned to bless nor to curse from
the heart.
Rather will I sit in a tub under a closed heaven, rather will I sit in
the abyss without heaven, than see thee, thou luminous heaven, tainted
with passing clouds!
And oft have I longed to pin them fast with the jagged gold-wires of
lightning, that I might, like the thunder, beat the drum upon their
kettle-bellies:—
—An angry drummer, because they rob me of thy Yea and Amen!—thou
heaven above me, thou pure, thou luminous heaven! Thou abyss of
light!—because they rob thee of MY Yea and Amen.
For rather will I have noise and thunders and tempest-blasts, than this
discreet, doubting cat-repose; and also amongst men do I hate most
of all the soft-treaders, and half-and-half ones, and the doubting,
hesitating, passing clouds.
And “he who cannot bless shall LEARN to curse!”—this clear teaching
dropt unto me from the clear heaven; this star standeth in my heaven
even in dark nights.
I, however, am a blesser and a Yea-sayer, if thou be but around me, thou
pure, thou luminous heaven! Thou abyss of light!—into all abysses do I
then carry my beneficent Yea-saying.
A blesser have I become and a Yea-sayer: and therefore strove I long and
was a striver, that I might one day get my hands free for blessing.
This, however, is my blessing: to stand above everything as its own
heaven, its round roof, its azure bell and eternal security: and blessed
is he who thus blesseth!
For all things are baptized at the font of eternity, and beyond good and
evil; good and evil themselves, however, are but fugitive shadows and
damp afflictions and passing clouds.
Verily, it is a blessing and not a blasphemy when I teach that “above
all things there standeth the heaven of chance, the heaven of innocence,
the heaven of hazard, the heaven of wantonness.”
“Of Hazard”—that is the oldest nobility in the world; that gave I back
to all things; I emancipated them from bondage under purpose.
This freedom and celestial serenity did I put like an azure bell above
all things, when I taught that over them and through them, no “eternal
Will”—willeth.
This wantonness and folly did I put in place of that Will, when I taught
that “In everything there is one thing impossible—rationality!”
A LITTLE reason, to be sure, a germ of wisdom scattered from star to
star—this leaven is mixed in all things: for the sake of folly, wisdom
is mixed in all things!
A little wisdom is indeed possible; but this blessed security have I
found in all things, that they prefer—_to dance_ on the feet of chance.
O heaven above me! thou pure, thou lofty heaven! This is now thy purity
unto me, that there is no eternal reason-spider and reason-cobweb:—
—That thou art to me a dancing-floor for divine chances, that thou art
to me a table of the Gods, for divine dice and dice-players!—
But thou blushest? Have I spoken unspeakable things? Have I abused, when
I meant to bless thee?
Or is it the shame of being two of us that maketh thee blush!—Dost thou
bid me go and be silent, because now—DAY cometh?
The world is deep:—and deeper than e’er the day could read. Not
everything may be uttered in presence of day. But day cometh: so let us
part!
O heaven above me, thou modest one! thou glowing one! O thou, my
happiness before sunrise! The day cometh: so let us part!—
Thus spake Zarathustra.


XLIX. THE BEDWARFING VIRTUE.

1.
When Zarathustra was again on the continent, he did not go straightway
to his mountains and his cave, but made many wanderings and
questionings, and ascertained this and that; so that he said of himself
jestingly: “Lo, a river that floweth back unto its source in many
windings!” For he wanted to learn what had taken place AMONG MEN during
the interval: whether they had become greater or smaller. And once, when
he saw a row of new houses, he marvelled, and said:
“What do these houses mean? Verily, no great soul put them up as its
simile!
Did perhaps a silly child take them out of its toy-box? Would that
another child put them again into the box!
And these rooms and chambers—can MEN go out and in there? They seem to
be made for silk dolls; or for dainty-eaters, who perhaps let others eat
with them.”
And Zarathustra stood still and meditated. At last he said sorrowfully:
“There hath EVERYTHING become smaller!
Everywhere do I see lower doorways: he who is of MY type can still go
therethrough, but—he must stoop!
Oh, when shall I arrive again at my home, where I shall no longer have
to stoop—shall no longer have to stoop BEFORE THE SMALL ONES!”—And
Zarathustra sighed, and gazed into the distance.—
The same day, however, he gave his discourse on the bedwarfing virtue.
2.
I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open: they do not forgive
me for not envying their virtues.
They bite at me, because I say unto them that for small people, small
virtues are necessary—and because it is hard for me to understand that
small people are NECESSARY!
Here am I still like a cock in a strange farm-yard, at which even the
hens peck: but on that account I am not unfriendly to the hens.
I am courteous towards them, as towards all small annoyances; to be
prickly towards what is small, seemeth to me wisdom for hedgehogs.
They all speak of me when they sit around their fire in the
evening—they speak of me, but no one thinketh—of me!
This is the new stillness which I have experienced: their noise around
me spreadeth a mantle over my thoughts.
They shout to one another: “What is this gloomy cloud about to do to us?
Let us see that it doth not bring a plague upon us!”
And recently did a woman seize upon her child that was coming unto
me: “Take the children away,” cried she, “such eyes scorch children’s
souls.”
They cough when I speak: they think coughing an objection to strong
winds—they divine nothing of the boisterousness of my happiness!
“We have not yet time for Zarathustra”—so they object; but what matter
about a time that “hath no time” for Zarathustra?
And if they should altogether praise me, how could I go to sleep on
THEIR praise? A girdle of spines is their praise unto me: it scratcheth
me even when I take it off.
And this also did I learn among them: the praiser doeth as if he gave
back; in truth, however, he wanteth more to be given him!
Ask my foot if their lauding and luring strains please it! Verily,
to such measure and ticktack, it liketh neither to dance nor to stand
still.
To small virtues would they fain lure and laud me; to the ticktack of
small happiness would they fain persuade my foot.
I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open; they have become
SMALLER, and ever become smaller:—THE REASON THEREOF IS THEIR DOCTRINE
OF HAPPINESS AND VIRTUE.
For they are moderate also in virtue,—because they want comfort. With
comfort, however, moderate virtue only is compatible.
To be sure, they also learn in their way to stride on and stride
forward: that, I call their HOBBLING.—Thereby they become a hindrance
to all who are in haste.
And many of them go forward, and look backwards thereby, with stiffened
necks: those do I like to run up against.
Foot and eye shall not lie, nor give the lie to each other. But there is
much lying among small people.
Some of them WILL, but most of them are WILLED. Some of them are
genuine, but most of them are bad actors.
There are actors without knowing it amongst them, and actors without
intending it—, the genuine ones are always rare, especially the genuine
actors.
Of man there is little here: therefore do their women masculinise
themselves. For only he who is man enough, will—SAVE THE WOMAN in
woman.
And this hypocrisy found I worst amongst them, that even those who
command feign the virtues of those who serve.
“I serve, thou servest, we serve”—so chanteth here even the hypocrisy
of the rulers—and alas! if the first lord be ONLY the first servant!
Ah, even upon their hypocrisy did mine eyes’ curiosity alight; and well
did I divine all their fly-happiness, and their buzzing around sunny
window-panes.
So much kindness, so much weakness do I see. So much justice and pity,
so much weakness.
Round, fair, and considerate are they to one another, as grains of sand
are round, fair, and considerate to grains of sand.
Modestly to embrace a small happiness—that do they call “submission”!
and at the same time they peer modestly after a new small happiness.
In their hearts they want simply one thing most of all: that no one hurt
them. Thus do they anticipate every one’s wishes and do well unto every
one.
That, however, is COWARDICE, though it be called “virtue.”—
And when they chance to speak harshly, those small people, then do _I_
hear therein only their hoarseness—every draught of air maketh them
hoarse.
Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues have shrewd fingers. But they lack
fists: their fingers do not know how to creep behind fists.
Virtue for them is what maketh modest and tame: therewith have they made
the wolf a dog, and man himself man’s best domestic animal.
“We set our chair in the MIDST”—so saith their smirking unto me—“and
as far from dying gladiators as from satisfied swine.”
That, however, is—MEDIOCRITY, though it be called moderation.—
3.
I pass through this people and let fall many words: but they know
neither how to take nor how to retain them.
They wonder why I came not to revile venery and vice; and verily, I came
not to warn against pickpockets either!
They wonder why I am not ready to abet and whet their wisdom: as if they
had not yet enough of wiseacres, whose voices grate on mine ear like
slate-pencils!
And when I call out: “Curse all the cowardly devils in you, that
would fain whimper and fold the hands and adore”—then do they shout:
“Zarathustra is godless.”
And especially do their teachers of submission shout this;—but
precisely in their ears do I love to cry: “Yea! I AM Zarathustra, the
godless!”
Those teachers of submission! Wherever there is aught puny, or sickly,
or scabby, there do they creep like lice; and only my disgust preventeth
me from cracking them.
Well! This is my sermon for THEIR ears: I am Zarathustra the godless,
who saith: “Who is more godless than I, that I may enjoy his teaching?”
I am Zarathustra the godless: where do I find mine equal? And all
those are mine equals who give unto themselves their Will, and divest
themselves of all submission.
I am Zarathustra the godless! I cook every chance in MY pot. And only
when it hath been quite cooked do I welcome it as MY food.
And verily, many a chance came imperiously unto me: but still more
imperiously did my WILL speak unto it,—then did it lie imploringly upon
its knees—
—Imploring that it might find home and heart with me, and saying
flatteringly: “See, O Zarathustra, how friend only cometh unto
friend!”—
But why talk I, when no one hath MINE ears! And so will I shout it out
unto all the winds:
Ye ever become smaller, ye small people! Ye crumble away, ye comfortable
ones! Ye will yet perish—
—By your many small virtues, by your many small omissions, and by your
many small submissions!
Too tender, too yielding: so is your soil! But for a tree to become
GREAT, it seeketh to twine hard roots around hard rocks!
Also what ye omit weaveth at the web of all the human future; even your
naught is a cobweb, and a spider that liveth on the blood of the future.
And when ye take, then is it like stealing, ye small virtuous ones;
but even among knaves HONOUR saith that “one shall only steal when one
cannot rob.”
“It giveth itself”—that is also a doctrine of submission. But I say
unto you, ye comfortable ones, that IT TAKETH TO ITSELF, and will ever
take more and more from you!
Ah, that ye would renounce all HALF-willing, and would decide for
idleness as ye decide for action!
Ah, that ye understood my word: “Do ever what ye will—but first be such
as CAN WILL.
Love ever your neighbour as yourselves—but first be such as LOVE
THEMSELVES—
—Such as love with great love, such as love with great contempt!” Thus
speaketh Zarathustra the godless.—
But why talk I, when no one hath MINE ears! It is still an hour too
early for me here.
Mine own forerunner am I among this people, mine own cockcrow in dark
lanes.
But THEIR hour cometh! And there cometh also mine! Hourly do they become
smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller,—poor herbs! poor earth!
And SOON shall they stand before me like dry grass and prairie, and
verily, weary of themselves—and panting for FIRE, more than for water!
O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noontide!—Running
fires will I one day make of them, and heralds with flaming tongues:—
—Herald shall they one day with flaming tongues: It cometh, it is nigh,
THE GREAT NOONTIDE!
Thus spake Zarathustra.


L. ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT.

Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his
friendly hand-shaking.
I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I
run away from him; and when one runneth WELL, then one escapeth him!
With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm—to the
sunny corner of mine olive-mount.
There do I laugh at my stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he
cleareth my house of flies, and quieteth many little noises.
For he suffereth it not if a gnat wanteth to buzz, or even two of them;
also the lanes maketh he lonesome, so that the moonlight is afraid there
at night.
A hard guest is he,—but I honour him, and do not worship, like the
tenderlings, the pot-bellied fire-idol.
Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration!—so willeth
my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent, steaming,
steamy fire-idols.
Him whom I love, I love better in winter than in summer; better do I
now mock at mine enemies, and more heartily, when winter sitteth in my
house.
Heartily, verily, even when I CREEP into bed—: there, still laugheth
and wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my deceptive dream laugheth.
I, a—creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the powerful; and if
ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore am I glad even in my
winter-bed.
A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich one, for I am jealous of my
poverty. And in winter she is most faithful unto me.
With a wickedness do I begin every day: I mock at the winter with a cold
bath: on that account grumbleth my stern house-mate.
Also do I like to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let
the heavens emerge from ashy-grey twilight.
For especially wicked am I in the morning: at the early hour when the
pail rattleth at the well, and horses neigh warmly in grey lanes:—
Impatiently do I then wait, that the clear sky may finally dawn for me,
the snow-bearded winter-sky, the hoary one, the whitehead,—
—The winter-sky, the silent winter-sky, which often stifleth even its
sun!
Did I perhaps learn from it the long clear silence? Or did it learn it
from me? Or hath each of us devised it himself?
Of all good things the origin is a thousandfold,—all good roguish
things spring into existence for joy: how could they always do so—for
once only!
A good roguish thing is also the long silence, and to look, like the
winter-sky, out of a clear, round-eyed countenance:—
—Like it to stifle one’s sun, and one’s inflexible solar will: verily,
this art and this winter-roguishness have I learnt WELL!
My best-loved wickedness and art is it, that my silence hath learned not
to betray itself by silence.
Clattering with diction and dice, I outwit the solemn assistants: all
those stern watchers, shall my will and purpose elude.
That no one might see down into my depth and into mine ultimate
will—for that purpose did I devise the long clear silence.
Many a shrewd one did I find: he veiled his countenance and made his
water muddy, that no one might see therethrough and thereunder.
But precisely unto him came the shrewder distrusters and nut-crackers:
precisely from him did they fish his best-concealed fish!
But the clear, the honest, the transparent—these are for me the wisest
silent ones: in them, so PROFOUND is the depth that even the clearest
water doth not—betray it.—
Thou snow-bearded, silent, winter-sky, thou round-eyed whitehead above
me! Oh, thou heavenly simile of my soul and its wantonness!
And MUST I not conceal myself like one who hath swallowed gold—lest my
soul should be ripped up?
MUST I not wear stilts, that they may OVERLOOK my long legs—all those
enviers and injurers around me?
Those dingy, fire-warmed, used-up, green-tinted, ill-natured souls—how
COULD their envy endure my happiness!
Thus do I show them only the ice and winter of my peaks—and NOT that my
mountain windeth all the solar girdles around it!
They hear only the whistling of my winter-storms: and know NOT that I
also travel over warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south-winds.
They commiserate also my accidents and chances:—but MY word saith:
“Suffer the chance to come unto me: innocent is it as a little child!”
How COULD they endure my happiness, if I did not put around it
accidents, and winter-privations, and bear-skin caps, and enmantling
snowflakes!
—If I did not myself commiserate their PITY, the pity of those enviers
and injurers!
—If I did not myself sigh before them, and chatter with cold, and
patiently LET myself be swathed in their pity!
This is the wise waggish-will and good-will of my soul, that it
CONCEALETH NOT its winters and glacial storms; it concealeth not its
chilblains either.
To one man, lonesomeness is the flight of the sick one; to another, it
is the flight FROM the sick ones.
Let them HEAR me chattering and sighing with winter-cold, all those poor