Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None - 18

the heart! Oh, break up, break up, my heart, after such happiness, after
such a sting!
—What? Hath not the world just now become perfect? Round and ripe? Oh,
for the golden round ring—whither doth it fly? Let me run after it!
Quick!
Hush—” (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and felt that he was
asleep.)
“Up!” said he to himself, “thou sleeper! Thou noontide sleeper! Well
then, up, ye old legs! It is time and more than time; many a good
stretch of road is still awaiting you—
Now have ye slept your fill; for how long a time? A half-eternity! Well
then, up now, mine old heart! For how long after such a sleep mayest
thou—remain awake?”
(But then did he fall asleep anew, and his soul spake against him and
defended itself, and lay down again)—“Leave me alone! Hush! Hath not
the world just now become perfect? Oh, for the golden round ball!—
“Get up,” said Zarathustra, “thou little thief, thou sluggard! What!
Still stretching thyself, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells?
Who art thou then, O my soul!” (and here he became frightened, for a
sunbeam shot down from heaven upon his face.)
“O heaven above me,” said he sighing, and sat upright, “thou gazest at
me? Thou hearkenest unto my strange soul?
When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell down upon all earthly
things,—when wilt thou drink this strange soul—
—When, thou well of eternity! thou joyous, awful, noontide abyss! when
wilt thou drink my soul back into thee?”
Thus spake Zarathustra, and rose from his couch beside the tree, as if
awakening from a strange drunkenness: and behold! there stood the
sun still exactly above his head. One might, however, rightly infer
therefrom that Zarathustra had not then slept long.


LXXI. THE GREETING.

It was late in the afternoon only when Zarathustra, after long useless
searching and strolling about, again came home to his cave. When,
however, he stood over against it, not more than twenty paces therefrom,
the thing happened which he now least of all expected: he heard anew the
great CRY OF DISTRESS. And extraordinary! this time the cry came out
of his own cave. It was a long, manifold, peculiar cry, and Zarathustra
plainly distinguished that it was composed of many voices: although
heard at a distance it might sound like the cry out of a single mouth.
Thereupon Zarathustra rushed forward to his cave, and behold! what a
spectacle awaited him after that concert! For there did they all sit
together whom he had passed during the day: the king on the right and
the king on the left, the old magician, the pope, the voluntary
beggar, the shadow, the intellectually conscientious one, the sorrowful
soothsayer, and the ass; the ugliest man, however, had set a crown on
his head, and had put round him two purple girdles,—for he liked, like
all ugly ones, to disguise himself and play the handsome person. In the
midst, however, of that sorrowful company stood Zarathustra’s eagle,
ruffled and disquieted, for it had been called upon to answer too much
for which its pride had not any answer; the wise serpent however hung
round its neck.
All this did Zarathustra behold with great astonishment; then however he
scrutinised each individual guest with courteous curiosity, read their
souls and wondered anew. In the meantime the assembled ones had risen
from their seats, and waited with reverence for Zarathustra to speak.
Zarathustra however spake thus:
“Ye despairing ones! Ye strange ones! So it was YOUR cry of distress
that I heard? And now do I know also where he is to be sought, whom I
have sought for in vain to-day: THE HIGHER MAN—:
—In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man! But why do I wonder! Have
not I myself allured him to me by honey-offerings and artful lure-calls
of my happiness?
But it seemeth to me that ye are badly adapted for company: ye make
one another’s hearts fretful, ye that cry for help, when ye sit here
together? There is one that must first come,
—One who will make you laugh once more, a good jovial buffoon, a
dancer, a wind, a wild romp, some old fool:—what think ye?
Forgive me, however, ye despairing ones, for speaking such trivial words
before you, unworthy, verily, of such guests! But ye do not divine WHAT
maketh my heart wanton:—
—Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it me! For every one
becometh courageous who beholdeth a despairing one. To encourage a
despairing one—every one thinketh himself strong enough to do so.
To myself have ye given this power,—a good gift, mine honourable
guests! An excellent guest’s-present! Well, do not then upbraid when I
also offer you something of mine.
This is mine empire and my dominion: that which is mine, however, shall
this evening and to-night be yours. Mine animals shall serve you: let my
cave be your resting-place!
At house and home with me shall no one despair: in my purlieus do I
protect every one from his wild beasts. And that is the first thing
which I offer you: security!
The second thing, however, is my little finger. And when ye have THAT,
then take the whole hand also, yea, and the heart with it! Welcome here,
welcome to you, my guests!”
Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed with love and mischief. After this
greeting his guests bowed once more and were reverentially silent; the
king on the right, however, answered him in their name.
“O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast given us thy hand and thy
greeting, we recognise thee as Zarathustra. Thou hast humbled thyself
before us; almost hast thou hurt our reverence—:
—Who however could have humbled himself as thou hast done, with such
pride? THAT uplifteth us ourselves; a refreshment is it, to our eyes and
hearts.
To behold this, merely, gladly would we ascend higher mountains than
this. For as eager beholders have we come; we wanted to see what
brighteneth dim eyes.
And lo! now is it all over with our cries of distress. Now are our minds
and hearts open and enraptured. Little is lacking for our spirits to
become wanton.
There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth more pleasingly on earth
than a lofty, strong will: it is the finest growth. An entire landscape
refresheth itself at one such tree.
To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which groweth up like
thee—tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood,
stately,—
—In the end, however, grasping out for ITS dominion with strong, green
branches, asking weighty questions of the wind, the storm, and whatever
is at home on high places;
—Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh! who should not
ascend high mountains to behold such growths?
At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted also refresh
themselves; at thy look even the wavering become steady and heal their
hearts.
And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree do many eyes turn to-day;
a great longing hath arisen, and many have learned to ask: ‘Who is
Zarathustra?’
And those into whose ears thou hast at any time dripped thy song and thy
honey: all the hidden ones, the lone-dwellers and the twain-dwellers,
have simultaneously said to their hearts:
‘Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer worth while to live,
everything is indifferent, everything is useless: or else—we must live
with Zarathustra!’
‘Why doth he not come who hath so long announced himself?’ thus do many
people ask; ‘hath solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps go to
him?’
Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself becometh fragile and
breaketh open, like a grave that breaketh open and can no longer hold
its dead. Everywhere one seeth resurrected ones.
Now do the waves rise and rise around thy mountain, O Zarathustra. And
however high be thy height, many of them must rise up to thee: thy boat
shall not rest much longer on dry ground.
And that we despairing ones have now come into thy cave, and already no
longer despair:—it is but a prognostic and a presage that better ones
are on the way to thee,—
—For they themselves are on the way to thee, the last remnant of
God among men—that is to say, all the men of great longing, of great
loathing, of great satiety,
—All who do not want to live unless they learn again to HOPE—unless
they learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the GREAT hope!”
Thus spake the king on the right, and seized the hand of Zarathustra in
order to kiss it; but Zarathustra checked his veneration, and stepped
back frightened, fleeing as it were, silently and suddenly into the far
distance. After a little while, however, he was again at home with his
guests, looked at them with clear scrutinising eyes, and said:
“My guests, ye higher men, I will speak plain language and plainly with
you. It is not for YOU that I have waited here in these mountains.”
(“‘Plain language and plainly?’ Good God!” said here the king on the
left to himself; “one seeth he doth not know the good Occidentals, this
sage out of the Orient!
But he meaneth ‘blunt language and bluntly’—well! That is not the worst
taste in these days!”)
“Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men,” continued Zarathustra; “but
for me—ye are neither high enough, nor strong enough.
For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which is now silent in me,
but will not always be silent. And if ye appertain to me, still it is
not as my right arm.
For he who himself standeth, like you, on sickly and tender legs,
wisheth above all to be TREATED INDULGENTLY, whether he be conscious of
it or hide it from himself.
My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat indulgently, I DO NOT TREAT
MY WARRIORS INDULGENTLY: how then could ye be fit for MY warfare?
With you I should spoil all my victories. And many of you would tumble
over if ye but heard the loud beating of my drums.
Moreover, ye are not sufficiently beautiful and well-born for me. I
require pure, smooth mirrors for my doctrines; on your surface even mine
own likeness is distorted.
On your shoulders presseth many a burden, many a recollection; many a
mischievous dwarf squatteth in your corners. There is concealed populace
also in you.
And though ye be high and of a higher type, much in you is crooked and
misshapen. There is no smith in the world that could hammer you right
and straight for me.
Ye are only bridges: may higher ones pass over upon you! Ye signify
steps: so do not upbraid him who ascendeth beyond you into HIS height!
Out of your seed there may one day arise for me a genuine son and
perfect heir: but that time is distant. Ye yourselves are not those unto
whom my heritage and name belong.
Not for you do I wait here in these mountains; not with you may I
descend for the last time. Ye have come unto me only as a presage that
higher ones are on the way to me,—
—NOT the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety, and
that which ye call the remnant of God;
—Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For OTHERS do I wait here in these
mountains, and will not lift my foot from thence without them;
—For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones, merrier ones, for
such as are built squarely in body and soul: LAUGHING LIONS must come!
O my guests, ye strange ones—have ye yet heard nothing of my children?
And that they are on the way to me?
Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy Isles, of my new beautiful
race—why do ye not speak unto me thereof?
This guests’-present do I solicit of your love, that ye speak unto me of
my children. For them am I rich, for them I became poor: what have I not
surrendered,
—What would I not surrender that I might have one thing: THESE
children, THIS living plantation, THESE life-trees of my will and of my
highest hope!”
Thus spake Zarathustra, and stopped suddenly in his discourse: for his
longing came over him, and he closed his eyes and his mouth, because
of the agitation of his heart. And all his guests also were silent, and
stood still and confounded: except only that the old soothsayer made
signs with his hands and his gestures.


LXXII. THE SUPPER.

For at this point the soothsayer interrupted the greeting of Zarathustra
and his guests: he pressed forward as one who had no time to lose,
seized Zarathustra’s hand and exclaimed: “But Zarathustra!
One thing is more necessary than the other, so sayest thou thyself:
well, one thing is now more necessary UNTO ME than all others.
A word at the right time: didst thou not invite me to TABLE? And here
are many who have made long journeys. Thou dost not mean to feed us
merely with discourses?
Besides, all of you have thought too much about freezing, drowning,
suffocating, and other bodily dangers: none of you, however, have
thought of MY danger, namely, perishing of hunger—”
(Thus spake the soothsayer. When Zarathustra’s animals, however, heard
these words, they ran away in terror. For they saw that all they
had brought home during the day would not be enough to fill the one
soothsayer.)
“Likewise perishing of thirst,” continued the soothsayer. “And although
I hear water splashing here like words of wisdom—that is to say,
plenteously and unweariedly, I—want WINE!
Not every one is a born water-drinker like Zarathustra. Neither doth
water suit weary and withered ones: WE deserve wine—IT alone giveth
immediate vigour and improvised health!”
On this occasion, when the soothsayer was longing for wine, it happened
that the king on the left, the silent one, also found expression for
once. “WE took care,” said he, “about wine, I, along with my brother the
king on the right: we have enough of wine,—a whole ass-load of it. So
there is nothing lacking but bread.”
“Bread,” replied Zarathustra, laughing when he spake, “it is precisely
bread that anchorites have not. But man doth not live by bread alone,
but also by the flesh of good lambs, of which I have two:
—THESE shall we slaughter quickly, and cook spicily with sage: it is
so that I like them. And there is also no lack of roots and fruits,
good enough even for the fastidious and dainty,—nor of nuts and other
riddles for cracking.
Thus will we have a good repast in a little while. But whoever wish to
eat with us must also give a hand to the work, even the kings. For with
Zarathustra even a king may be a cook.”
This proposal appealed to the hearts of all of them, save that the
voluntary beggar objected to the flesh and wine and spices.
“Just hear this glutton Zarathustra!” said he jokingly: “doth one go
into caves and high mountains to make such repasts?
Now indeed do I understand what he once taught us: Blessed be moderate
poverty!’ And why he wisheth to do away with beggars.”
“Be of good cheer,” replied Zarathustra, “as I am. Abide by thy
customs, thou excellent one: grind thy corn, drink thy water, praise thy
cooking,—if only it make thee glad!
I am a law only for mine own; I am not a law for all. He, however, who
belongeth unto me must be strong of bone and light of foot,—
—Joyous in fight and feast, no sulker, no John o’ Dreams, ready for the
hardest task as for the feast, healthy and hale.
The best belongeth unto mine and me; and if it be not given us, then do
we take it:—the best food, the purest sky, the strongest thoughts, the
fairest women!”—
Thus spake Zarathustra; the king on the right however answered and said:
“Strange! Did one ever hear such sensible things out of the mouth of a
wise man?
And verily, it is the strangest thing in a wise man, if over and above,
he be still sensible, and not an ass.”
Thus spake the king on the right and wondered; the ass however, with
ill-will, said YE-A to his remark. This however was the beginning of
that long repast which is called “The Supper” in the history-books. At
this there was nothing else spoken of but THE HIGHER MAN.


LXXIII. THE HIGHER MAN.

1.
When I came unto men for the first time, then did I commit the anchorite
folly, the great folly: I appeared on the market-place.
And when I spake unto all, I spake unto none. In the evening, however,
rope-dancers were my companions, and corpses; and I myself almost a
corpse.
With the new morning, however, there came unto me a new truth: then did
I learn to say: “Of what account to me are market-place and populace and
populace-noise and long populace-ears!”
Ye higher men, learn THIS from me: On the market-place no one believeth
in higher men. But if ye will speak there, very well! The populace,
however, blinketh: “We are all equal.”
“Ye higher men,”—so blinketh the populace—“there are no higher men, we
are all equal; man is man, before God—we are all equal!”
Before God!—Now, however, this God hath died. Before the populace,
however, we will not be equal. Ye higher men, away from the
market-place!
2.
Before God!—Now however this God hath died! Ye higher men, this God was
your greatest danger.
Only since he lay in the grave have ye again arisen. Now only cometh the
great noontide, now only doth the higher man become—master!
Have ye understood this word, O my brethren? Ye are frightened: do your
hearts turn giddy? Doth the abyss here yawn for you? Doth the hell-hound
here yelp at you?
Well! Take heart! ye higher men! Now only travaileth the mountain of the
human future. God hath died: now do WE desire—the Superman to live.
3.
The most careful ask to-day: “How is man to be maintained?” Zarathustra
however asketh, as the first and only one: “How is man to be SURPASSED?”
The Superman, I have at heart; THAT is the first and only thing to
me—and NOT man: not the neighbour, not the poorest, not the sorriest,
not the best.—
O my brethren, what I can love in man is that he is an over-going and a
down-going. And also in you there is much that maketh me love and hope.
In that ye have despised, ye higher men, that maketh me hope. For the
great despisers are the great reverers.
In that ye have despaired, there is much to honour. For ye have not
learned to submit yourselves, ye have not learned petty policy.
For to-day have the petty people become master: they all preach
submission and humility and policy and diligence and consideration and
the long et cetera of petty virtues.
Whatever is of the effeminate type, whatever originateth from the
servile type, and especially the populace-mishmash:—THAT wisheth now to
be master of all human destiny—O disgust! Disgust! Disgust!
THAT asketh and asketh and never tireth: “How is man to maintain himself
best, longest, most pleasantly?” Thereby—are they the masters of
to-day.
These masters of to-day—surpass them, O my brethren—these petty
people: THEY are the Superman’s greatest danger!
Surpass, ye higher men, the petty virtues, the petty policy, the
sand-grain considerateness, the ant-hill trumpery, the pitiable
comfortableness, the “happiness of the greatest number”—!
And rather despair than submit yourselves. And verily, I love you,
because ye know not to-day how to live, ye higher men! For thus do YE
live—best!
4.
Have ye courage, O my brethren? Are ye stout-hearted? NOT the courage
before witnesses, but anchorite and eagle courage, which not even a God
any longer beholdeth?
Cold souls, mules, the blind and the drunken, I do not call
stout-hearted. He hath heart who knoweth fear, but VANQUISHETH it; who
seeth the abyss, but with PRIDE.
He who seeth the abyss, but with eagle’s eyes,—he who with eagle’s
talons GRASPETH the abyss: he hath courage.—
5.
“Man is evil”—so said to me for consolation, all the wisest ones. Ah,
if only it be still true to-day! For the evil is man’s best force.
“Man must become better and eviler”—so do _I_ teach. The evilest is
necessary for the Superman’s best.
It may have been well for the preacher of the petty people to suffer and
be burdened by men’s sin. I, however, rejoice in great sin as my great
CONSOLATION.—
Such things, however, are not said for long ears. Every word, also,
is not suited for every mouth. These are fine far-away things: at them
sheep’s claws shall not grasp!
6.
Ye higher men, think ye that I am here to put right what ye have put
wrong?
Or that I wished henceforth to make snugger couches for you sufferers?
Or show you restless, miswandering, misclimbing ones, new and easier
footpaths?
Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! Always more, always better ones of your
type shall succumb,—for ye shall always have it worse and harder. Thus
only—
—Thus only groweth man aloft to the height where the lightning striketh
and shattereth him: high enough for the lightning!
Towards the few, the long, the remote go forth my soul and my seeking:
of what account to me are your many little, short miseries!
Ye do not yet suffer enough for me! For ye suffer from yourselves, ye
have not yet suffered FROM MAN. Ye would lie if ye spake otherwise! None
of you suffereth from what _I_ have suffered.—
7.
It is not enough for me that the lightning no longer doeth harm. I do
not wish to conduct it away: it shall learn—to work for ME.—
My wisdom hath accumulated long like a cloud, it becometh stiller and
darker. So doeth all wisdom which shall one day bear LIGHTNINGS.—
Unto these men of to-day will I not be LIGHT, nor be called light.
THEM—will I blind: lightning of my wisdom! put out their eyes!
8.
Do not will anything beyond your power: there is a bad falseness in
those who will beyond their power.
Especially when they will great things! For they awaken distrust in
great things, these subtle false-coiners and stage-players:—
—Until at last they are false towards themselves, squint-eyed, whited
cankers, glossed over with strong words, parade virtues and brilliant
false deeds.
Take good care there, ye higher men! For nothing is more precious to me,
and rarer, than honesty.
Is this to-day not that of the populace? The populace however knoweth
not what is great and what is small, what is straight and what is
honest: it is innocently crooked, it ever lieth.
9.
Have a good distrust to-day ye, higher men, ye enheartened ones! Ye
open-hearted ones! And keep your reasons secret! For this to-day is that
of the populace.
What the populace once learned to believe without reasons, who could—
refute it to them by means of reasons?
And on the market-place one convinceth with gestures. But reasons make
the populace distrustful.
And when truth hath once triumphed there, then ask yourselves with good
distrust: “What strong error hath fought for it?”
Be on your guard also against the learned! They hate you, because they
are unproductive! They have cold, withered eyes before which every bird
is unplumed.
Such persons vaunt about not lying: but inability to lie is still far
from being love to truth. Be on your guard!
Freedom from fever is still far from being knowledge! Refrigerated
spirits I do not believe in. He who cannot lie, doth not know what truth
is.
10.
If ye would go up high, then use your own legs! Do not get yourselves
CARRIED aloft; do not seat yourselves on other people’s backs and heads!
Thou hast mounted, however, on horseback? Thou now ridest briskly up
to thy goal? Well, my friend! But thy lame foot is also with thee on
horseback!
When thou reachest thy goal, when thou alightest from thy horse:
precisely on thy HEIGHT, thou higher man,—then wilt thou stumble!
11.
Ye creating ones, ye higher men! One is only pregnant with one’s own
child.
Do not let yourselves be imposed upon or put upon! Who then is YOUR
neighbour? Even if ye act “for your neighbour”—ye still do not create
for him!
Unlearn, I pray you, this “for,” ye creating ones: your very virtue
wisheth you to have naught to do with “for” and “on account of” and
“because.” Against these false little words shall ye stop your ears.
“For one’s neighbour,” is the virtue only of the petty people: there it
is said “like and like,” and “hand washeth hand”:—they have neither the
right nor the power for YOUR self-seeking!
In your self-seeking, ye creating ones, there is the foresight and
foreseeing of the pregnant! What no one’s eye hath yet seen, namely, the
fruit—this, sheltereth and saveth and nourisheth your entire love.
Where your entire love is, namely, with your child, there is also your
entire virtue! Your work, your will is YOUR “neighbour”: let no false
values impose upon you!
12.
Ye creating ones, ye higher men! Whoever hath to give birth is sick;
whoever hath given birth, however, is unclean.
Ask women: one giveth birth, not because it giveth pleasure. The pain
maketh hens and poets cackle.
Ye creating ones, in you there is much uncleanliness. That is because ye
have had to be mothers.
A new child: oh, how much new filth hath also come into the world! Go
apart! He who hath given birth shall wash his soul!
13.
Be not virtuous beyond your powers! And seek nothing from yourselves
opposed to probability!
Walk in the footsteps in which your fathers’ virtue hath already walked!
How would ye rise high, if your fathers’ will should not rise with you?
He, however, who would be a firstling, let him take care lest he also
become a lastling! And where the vices of your fathers are, there should
ye not set up as saints!
He whose fathers were inclined for women, and for strong wine and flesh
of wildboar swine; what would it be if he demanded chastity of himself?
A folly would it be! Much, verily, doth it seem to me for such a one, if
he should be the husband of one or of two or of three women.
And if he founded monasteries, and inscribed over their portals: “The
way to holiness,”—I should still say: What good is it! it is a new
folly!
He hath founded for himself a penance-house and refuge-house: much good
may it do! But I do not believe in it.
In solitude there groweth what any one bringeth into it—also the brute
in one’s nature. Thus is solitude inadvisable unto many.
Hath there ever been anything filthier on earth than the saints of
the wilderness? AROUND THEM was not only the devil loose—but also the
swine.
14.
Shy, ashamed, awkward, like the tiger whose spring hath failed—thus, ye
higher men, have I often seen you slink aside. A CAST which ye made had
failed.
But what doth it matter, ye dice-players! Ye had not learned to play and
mock, as one must play and mock! Do we not ever sit at a great table of
mocking and playing?
And if great things have been a failure with you, have ye yourselves
therefore—been a failure? And if ye yourselves have been a failure,
hath man therefore—been a failure? If man, however, hath been a
failure: well then! never mind!
15.
The higher its type, always the seldomer doth a thing succeed. Ye higher
men here, have ye not all—been failures?
Be of good cheer; what doth it matter? How much is still possible! Learn
to laugh at yourselves, as ye ought to laugh!
What wonder even that ye have failed and only half-succeeded, ye
half-shattered ones! Doth not—man’s FUTURE strive and struggle in you?
Man’s furthest, profoundest, star-highest issues, his prodigious
powers—do not all these foam through one another in your vessel?
What wonder that many a vessel shattereth! Learn to laugh at yourselves,
as ye ought to laugh! Ye higher men, O, how much is still possible!
And verily, how much hath already succeeded! How rich is this earth in
small, good, perfect things, in well-constituted things!
Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye higher men. Their golden
maturity healeth the heart. The perfect teacheth one to hope.
16.
What hath hitherto been the greatest sin here on earth? Was it not the