Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None - 19

word of him who said: “Woe unto them that laugh now!”
Did he himself find no cause for laughter on the earth? Then he sought
badly. A child even findeth cause for it.
He—did not love sufficiently: otherwise would he also have loved
us, the laughing ones! But he hated and hooted us; wailing and
teeth-gnashing did he promise us.
Must one then curse immediately, when one doth not love? That—seemeth
to me bad taste. Thus did he, however, this absolute one. He sprang from
the populace.
And he himself just did not love sufficiently; otherwise would he have
raged less because people did not love him. All great love doth not SEEK
love:—it seeketh more.
Go out of the way of all such absolute ones! They are a poor sickly
type, a populace-type: they look at this life with ill-will, they have
an evil eye for this earth.
Go out of the way of all such absolute ones! They have heavy feet and
sultry hearts:—they do not know how to dance. How could the earth be
light to such ones!
17.
Tortuously do all good things come nigh to their goal. Like cats
they curve their backs, they purr inwardly with their approaching
happiness,—all good things laugh.
His step betrayeth whether a person already walketh on HIS OWN path:
just see me walk! He, however, who cometh nigh to his goal, danceth.
And verily, a statue have I not become, not yet do I stand there stiff,
stupid and stony, like a pillar; I love fast racing.
And though there be on earth fens and dense afflictions, he who hath
light feet runneth even across the mud, and danceth, as upon well-swept
ice.
Lift up your hearts, my brethren, high, higher! And do not forget your
legs! Lift up also your legs, ye good dancers, and better still, if ye
stand upon your heads!
18.
This crown of the laughter, this rose-garland crown: I myself have put
on this crown, I myself have consecrated my laughter. No one else have I
found to-day potent enough for this.
Zarathustra the dancer, Zarathustra the light one, who beckoneth with
his pinions, one ready for flight, beckoning unto all birds, ready and
prepared, a blissfully light-spirited one:—
Zarathustra the soothsayer, Zarathustra the sooth-laugher, no impatient
one, no absolute one, one who loveth leaps and side-leaps; I myself have
put on this crown!
19.
Lift up your hearts, my brethren, high, higher! And do not forget your
legs! Lift up also your legs, ye good dancers, and better still if ye
stand upon your heads!
There are also heavy animals in a state of happiness, there are
club-footed ones from the beginning. Curiously do they exert themselves,
like an elephant which endeavoureth to stand upon its head.
Better, however, to be foolish with happiness than foolish with
misfortune, better to dance awkwardly than walk lamely. So learn, I
pray you, my wisdom, ye higher men: even the worst thing hath two good
reverse sides,—
—Even the worst thing hath good dancing-legs: so learn, I pray you, ye
higher men, to put yourselves on your proper legs!
So unlearn, I pray you, the sorrow-sighing, and all the
populace-sadness! Oh, how sad the buffoons of the populace seem to me
to-day! This to-day, however, is that of the populace.
20.
Do like unto the wind when it rusheth forth from its mountain-caves:
unto its own piping will it dance; the seas tremble and leap under its
footsteps.
That which giveth wings to asses, that which milketh the lionesses:—
praised be that good, unruly spirit, which cometh like a hurricane unto
all the present and unto all the populace,—
—Which is hostile to thistle-heads and puzzle-heads, and to all
withered leaves and weeds:—praised be this wild, good, free spirit of
the storm, which danceth upon fens and afflictions, as upon meadows!
Which hateth the consumptive populace-dogs, and all the ill-constituted,
sullen brood:—praised be this spirit of all free spirits, the laughing
storm, which bloweth dust into the eyes of all the melanopic and
melancholic!
Ye higher men, the worst thing in you is that ye have none of you
learned to dance as ye ought to dance—to dance beyond yourselves! What
doth it matter that ye have failed!
How many things are still possible! So LEARN to laugh beyond yourselves!
Lift up your hearts, ye good dancers, high! higher! And do not forget
the good laughter!
This crown of the laughter, this rose-garland crown: to you my brethren
do I cast this crown! Laughing have I consecrated; ye higher men, LEARN,
I pray you—to laugh!


LXXIV. THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY.

1.
When Zarathustra spake these sayings, he stood nigh to the entrance of
his cave; with the last words, however, he slipped away from his guests,
and fled for a little while into the open air.
“O pure odours around me,” cried he, “O blessed stillness around me! But
where are mine animals? Hither, hither, mine eagle and my serpent!
Tell me, mine animals: these higher men, all of them—do they perhaps
not SMELL well? O pure odours around me! Now only do I know and feel how
I love you, mine animals.”
—And Zarathustra said once more: “I love you, mine animals!” The eagle,
however, and the serpent pressed close to him when he spake these
words, and looked up to him. In this attitude were they all three silent
together, and sniffed and sipped the good air with one another. For the
air here outside was better than with the higher men.
2.
Hardly, however, had Zarathustra left the cave when the old magician got
up, looked cunningly about him, and said: “He is gone!
And already, ye higher men—let me tickle you with this complimentary
and flattering name, as he himself doeth—already doth mine evil spirit
of deceit and magic attack me, my melancholy devil,
—Which is an adversary to this Zarathustra from the very heart: forgive
it for this! Now doth it wish to conjure before you, it hath just ITS
hour; in vain do I struggle with this evil spirit.
Unto all of you, whatever honours ye like to assume in your names,
whether ye call yourselves ‘the free spirits’ or ‘the conscientious,’
or ‘the penitents of the spirit,’ or ‘the unfettered,’ or ‘the great
longers,’—
—Unto all of you, who like me suffer FROM THE GREAT LOATHING, to
whom the old God hath died, and as yet no new God lieth in cradles and
swaddling clothes—unto all of you is mine evil spirit and magic-devil
favourable.
I know you, ye higher men, I know him,—I know also this fiend whom I
love in spite of me, this Zarathustra: he himself often seemeth to me
like the beautiful mask of a saint,
—Like a new strange mummery in which mine evil spirit, the melancholy
devil, delighteth:—I love Zarathustra, so doth it often seem to me, for
the sake of mine evil spirit.—
But already doth IT attack me and constrain me, this spirit of
melancholy, this evening-twilight devil: and verily, ye higher men, it
hath a longing—
—Open your eyes!—it hath a longing to come NAKED, whether male or
female, I do not yet know: but it cometh, it constraineth me, alas! open
your wits!
The day dieth out, unto all things cometh now the evening, also unto
the best things; hear now, and see, ye higher men, what devil—man or
woman—this spirit of evening-melancholy is!”
Thus spake the old magician, looked cunningly about him, and then seized
his harp.
3.
In evening’s limpid air,
What time the dew’s soothings
Unto the earth downpour,
Invisibly and unheard—
For tender shoe-gear wear
The soothing dews, like all that’s kind-gentle—:
Bethinkst thou then, bethinkst thou, burning heart,
How once thou thirstedest
For heaven’s kindly teardrops and dew’s down-droppings,
All singed and weary thirstedest,
What time on yellow grass-pathways
Wicked, occidental sunny glances
Through sombre trees about thee sported,
Blindingly sunny glow-glances, gladly-hurting?
“Of TRUTH the wooer? Thou?”—so taunted they—
“Nay! Merely poet!
A brute insidious, plundering, grovelling,
That aye must lie,
That wittingly, wilfully, aye must lie:
For booty lusting,
Motley masked,
Self-hidden, shrouded,
Himself his booty—
HE—of truth the wooer?
Nay! Mere fool! Mere poet!
Just motley speaking,
From mask of fool confusedly shouting,
Circumambling on fabricated word-bridges,
On motley rainbow-arches,
‘Twixt the spurious heavenly,
And spurious earthly,
Round us roving, round us soaring,—
MERE FOOL! MERE POET!
HE—of truth the wooer?
Not still, stiff, smooth and cold,
Become an image,
A godlike statue,
Set up in front of temples,
As a God’s own door-guard:
Nay! hostile to all such truthfulness-statues,
In every desert homelier than at temples,
With cattish wantonness,
Through every window leaping
Quickly into chances,
Every wild forest a-sniffing,
Greedily-longingly, sniffing,
That thou, in wild forests,
’Mong the motley-speckled fierce creatures,
Shouldest rove, sinful-sound and fine-coloured,
With longing lips smacking,
Blessedly mocking, blessedly hellish, blessedly bloodthirsty,
Robbing, skulking, lying—roving:—
Or unto eagles like which fixedly,
Long adown the precipice look,
Adown THEIR precipice:—
Oh, how they whirl down now,
Thereunder, therein,
To ever deeper profoundness whirling!—
Then,
Sudden,
With aim aright,
With quivering flight,
On LAMBKINS pouncing,
Headlong down, sore-hungry,
For lambkins longing,
Fierce ’gainst all lamb-spirits,
Furious-fierce ’gainst all that look
Sheeplike, or lambeyed, or crisp-woolly,
—Grey, with lambsheep kindliness!
Even thus,
Eaglelike, pantherlike,
Are the poet’s desires,
Are THINE OWN desires ‘neath a thousand guises,
Thou fool! Thou poet!
Thou who all mankind viewedst—
So God, as sheep—:
The God TO REND within mankind,
As the sheep in mankind,
And in rending LAUGHING—
THAT, THAT is thine own blessedness!
Of a panther and eagle—blessedness!
Of a poet and fool—the blessedness!—
In evening’s limpid air,
What time the moon’s sickle,
Green, ‘twixt the purple-glowings,
And jealous, steal’th forth:
—Of day the foe,
With every step in secret,
The rosy garland-hammocks
Downsickling, till they’ve sunken
Down nightwards, faded, downsunken:—
Thus had I sunken one day
From mine own truth-insanity,
From mine own fervid day-longings,
Of day aweary, sick of sunshine,
—Sunk downwards, evenwards, shadowwards:
By one sole trueness
All scorched and thirsty:
—Bethinkst thou still, bethinkst thou, burning heart,
How then thou thirstedest?—
THAT I SHOULD BANNED BE
FROM ALL THE TRUENESS!
MERE FOOL! MERE POET!


LXXV. SCIENCE.

Thus sang the magician; and all who were present went like birds
unawares into the net of his artful and melancholy voluptuousness.
Only the spiritually conscientious one had not been caught: he at once
snatched the harp from the magician and called out: “Air! Let in good
air! Let in Zarathustra! Thou makest this cave sultry and poisonous,
thou bad old magician!
Thou seducest, thou false one, thou subtle one, to unknown desires and
deserts. And alas, that such as thou should talk and make ado about the
TRUTH!
Alas, to all free spirits who are not on their guard against SUCH
magicians! It is all over with their freedom: thou teachest and temptest
back into prisons,—
—Thou old melancholy devil, out of thy lament soundeth a lurement: thou
resemblest those who with their praise of chastity secretly invite to
voluptuousness!”
Thus spake the conscientious one; the old magician, however, looked
about him, enjoying his triumph, and on that account put up with the
annoyance which the conscientious one caused him. “Be still!” said he
with modest voice, “good songs want to re-echo well; after good songs
one should be long silent.
Thus do all those present, the higher men. Thou, however, hast perhaps
understood but little of my song? In thee there is little of the magic
spirit.”
“Thou praisest me,” replied the conscientious one, “in that thou
separatest me from thyself; very well! But, ye others, what do I see? Ye
still sit there, all of you, with lusting eyes—:
Ye free spirits, whither hath your freedom gone! Ye almost seem to me
to resemble those who have long looked at bad girls dancing naked: your
souls themselves dance!
In you, ye higher men, there must be more of that which the magician
calleth his evil spirit of magic and deceit:—we must indeed be
different.
And verily, we spake and thought long enough together ere Zarathustra
came home to his cave, for me not to be unaware that we ARE different.
We SEEK different things even here aloft, ye and I. For I seek more
SECURITY; on that account have I come to Zarathustra. For he is still
the most steadfast tower and will—
—To-day, when everything tottereth, when all the earth quaketh. Ye,
however, when I see what eyes ye make, it almost seemeth to me that ye
seek MORE INSECURITY,
—More horror, more danger, more earthquake. Ye long (it almost seemeth
so to me—forgive my presumption, ye higher men)—
—Ye long for the worst and dangerousest life, which frighteneth ME
most,—for the life of wild beasts, for forests, caves, steep mountains
and labyrinthine gorges.
And it is not those who lead OUT OF danger that please you best, but
those who lead you away from all paths, the misleaders. But if
such longing in you be ACTUAL, it seemeth to me nevertheless to be
IMPOSSIBLE.
For fear—that is man’s original and fundamental feeling; through fear
everything is explained, original sin and original virtue. Through fear
there grew also MY virtue, that is to say: Science.
For fear of wild animals—that hath been longest fostered in
man, inclusive of the animal which he concealeth and feareth in
himself:—Zarathustra calleth it ‘the beast inside.’
Such prolonged ancient fear, at last become subtle, spiritual and
intellectual—at present, me thinketh, it is called SCIENCE.”—
Thus spake the conscientious one; but Zarathustra, who had just come
back into his cave and had heard and divined the last discourse, threw a
handful of roses to the conscientious one, and laughed on account of
his “truths.” “Why!” he exclaimed, “what did I hear just now? Verily, it
seemeth to me, thou art a fool, or else I myself am one: and quietly and
quickly will I put thy ‘truth’ upside down.
For FEAR—is an exception with us. Courage, however, and adventure, and
delight in the uncertain, in the unattempted—COURAGE seemeth to me the
entire primitive history of man.
The wildest and most courageous animals hath he envied and robbed of all
their virtues: thus only did he become—man.
THIS courage, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual, this
human courage, with eagle’s pinions and serpent’s wisdom: THIS, it
seemeth to me, is called at present—”
“ZARATHUSTRA!” cried all of them there assembled, as if with one voice,
and burst out at the same time into a great laughter; there arose,
however, from them as it were a heavy cloud. Even the magician laughed,
and said wisely: “Well! It is gone, mine evil spirit!
And did I not myself warn you against it when I said that it was a
deceiver, a lying and deceiving spirit?
Especially when it showeth itself naked. But what can _I_ do with regard
to its tricks! Have _I_ created it and the world?
Well! Let us be good again, and of good cheer! And although Zarathustra
looketh with evil eye—just see him! he disliketh me—:
—Ere night cometh will he again learn to love and laud me; he cannot
live long without committing such follies.
HE—loveth his enemies: this art knoweth he better than any one I have
seen. But he taketh revenge for it—on his friends!”
Thus spake the old magician, and the higher men applauded him; so that
Zarathustra went round, and mischievously and lovingly shook hands with
his friends,—like one who hath to make amends and apologise to every
one for something. When however he had thereby come to the door of his
cave, lo, then had he again a longing for the good air outside, and for
his animals,—and wished to steal out.


LXXVI. AMONG DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT.

1.
“Go not away!” said then the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s
shadow, “abide with us—otherwise the old gloomy affliction might again
fall upon us.
Now hath that old magician given us of his worst for our good, and
lo! the good, pious pope there hath tears in his eyes, and hath quite
embarked again upon the sea of melancholy.
Those kings may well put on a good air before us still: for that have
THEY learned best of us all at present! Had they however no one to see
them, I wager that with them also the bad game would again commence,—
—The bad game of drifting clouds, of damp melancholy, of curtained
heavens, of stolen suns, of howling autumn-winds,
—The bad game of our howling and crying for help! Abide with us, O
Zarathustra! Here there is much concealed misery that wisheth to speak,
much evening, much cloud, much damp air!
Thou hast nourished us with strong food for men, and powerful proverbs:
do not let the weakly, womanly spirits attack us anew at dessert!
Thou alone makest the air around thee strong and clear! Did I ever find
anywhere on earth such good air as with thee in thy cave?
Many lands have I seen, my nose hath learned to test and estimate many
kinds of air: but with thee do my nostrils taste their greatest delight!
Unless it be,—unless it be—, do forgive an old recollection! Forgive
me an old after-dinner song, which I once composed amongst daughters of
the desert:—
For with them was there equally good, clear, Oriental air; there was I
furthest from cloudy, damp, melancholy Old-Europe!
Then did I love such Oriental maidens and other blue kingdoms of heaven,
over which hang no clouds and no thoughts.
Ye would not believe how charmingly they sat there, when they did
not dance, profound, but without thoughts, like little secrets, like
beribboned riddles, like dessert-nuts—
Many-hued and foreign, forsooth! but without clouds: riddles which
can be guessed: to please such maidens I then composed an after-dinner
psalm.”
Thus spake the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s shadow; and
before any one answered him, he had seized the harp of the old magician,
crossed his legs, and looked calmly and sagely around him:—with his
nostrils, however, he inhaled the air slowly and questioningly, like one
who in new countries tasteth new foreign air. Afterward he began to sing
with a kind of roaring.
2.
THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE!
—Ha!
Solemnly!
In effect solemnly!
A worthy beginning!
Afric manner, solemnly!
Of a lion worthy,
Or perhaps of a virtuous howl-monkey—
—But it’s naught to you,
Ye friendly damsels dearly loved,
At whose own feet to me,
The first occasion,
To a European under palm-trees,
A seat is now granted. Selah.
Wonderful, truly!
Here do I sit now,
The desert nigh, and yet I am
So far still from the desert,
Even in naught yet deserted:
That is, I’m swallowed down
By this the smallest oasis—:
—It opened up just yawning,
Its loveliest mouth agape,
Most sweet-odoured of all mouthlets:
Then fell I right in,
Right down, right through—in ’mong you,
Ye friendly damsels dearly loved! Selah.
Hail! hail! to that whale, fishlike,
If it thus for its guest’s convenience
Made things nice!—(ye well know,
Surely, my learned allusion?)
Hail to its belly,
If it had e’er
A such loveliest oasis-belly
As this is: though however I doubt about it,
—With this come I out of Old-Europe,
That doubt’th more eagerly than doth any
Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it!
Amen!
Here do I sit now,
In this the smallest oasis,
Like a date indeed,
Brown, quite sweet, gold-suppurating,
For rounded mouth of maiden longing,
But yet still more for youthful, maidlike,
Ice-cold and snow-white and incisory
Front teeth: and for such assuredly,
Pine the hearts all of ardent date-fruits. Selah.
To the there-named south-fruits now,
Similar, all-too-similar,
Do I lie here; by little
Flying insects
Round-sniffled and round-played,
And also by yet littler,
Foolisher, and peccabler
Wishes and phantasies,—
Environed by you,
Ye silent, presentientest
Maiden-kittens,
Dudu and Suleika,
—ROUNDSPHINXED, that into one word
I may crowd much feeling:
(Forgive me, O God,
All such speech-sinning!)
—Sit I here the best of air sniffling,
Paradisal air, truly,
Bright and buoyant air, golden-mottled,
As goodly air as ever
From lunar orb downfell—
Be it by hazard,
Or supervened it by arrogancy?
As the ancient poets relate it.
But doubter, I’m now calling it
In question: with this do I come indeed
Out of Europe,
That doubt’th more eagerly than doth any
Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it!
Amen.
This the finest air drinking,
With nostrils out-swelled like goblets,
Lacking future, lacking remembrances
Thus do I sit here, ye
Friendly damsels dearly loved,
And look at the palm-tree there,
How it, to a dance-girl, like,
Doth bow and bend and on its haunches bob,
—One doth it too, when one view’th it long!—
To a dance-girl like, who as it seem’th to me,
Too long, and dangerously persistent,
Always, always, just on SINGLE leg hath stood?
—Then forgot she thereby, as it seem’th to me,
The OTHER leg?
For vainly I, at least,
Did search for the amissing
Fellow-jewel
—Namely, the other leg—
In the sanctified precincts,
Nigh her very dearest, very tenderest,
Flapping and fluttering and flickering skirting.
Yea, if ye should, ye beauteous friendly ones,
Quite take my word:
She hath, alas! LOST it!
Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu!
It is away!
For ever away!
The other leg!
Oh, pity for that loveliest other leg!
Where may it now tarry, all-forsaken weeping?
The lonesomest leg?
In fear perhaps before a
Furious, yellow, blond and curled
Leonine monster? Or perhaps even
Gnawed away, nibbled badly—
Most wretched, woeful! woeful! nibbled badly! Selah.
Oh, weep ye not,
Gentle spirits!
Weep ye not, ye
Date-fruit spirits! Milk-bosoms!
Ye sweetwood-heart
Purselets!
Weep ye no more,
Pallid Dudu!
Be a man, Suleika! Bold! Bold!
—Or else should there perhaps
Something strengthening, heart-strengthening,
Here most proper be?
Some inspiring text?
Some solemn exhortation?—
Ha! Up now! honour!
Moral honour! European honour!
Blow again, continue,
Bellows-box of virtue!
Ha!
Once more thy roaring,
Thy moral roaring!
As a virtuous lion
Nigh the daughters of deserts roaring!
—For virtue’s out-howl,
Ye very dearest maidens,
Is more than every
European fervour, European hot-hunger!
And now do I stand here,
As European,
I can’t be different, God’s help to me!
Amen!
THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE!


LXXVII. THE AWAKENING.

1.
After the song of the wanderer and shadow, the cave became all at once
full of noise and laughter: and since the assembled guests all spake
simultaneously, and even the ass, encouraged thereby, no longer
remained silent, a little aversion and scorn for his visitors came over
Zarathustra, although he rejoiced at their gladness. For it seemed to
him a sign of convalescence. So he slipped out into the open air and
spake to his animals.
“Whither hath their distress now gone?” said he, and already did he
himself feel relieved of his petty disgust—“with me, it seemeth that
they have unlearned their cries of distress!
—Though, alas! not yet their crying.” And Zarathustra stopped his
ears, for just then did the YE-A of the ass mix strangely with the noisy
jubilation of those higher men.
“They are merry,” he began again, “and who knoweth? perhaps at their
host’s expense; and if they have learned of me to laugh, still it is not
MY laughter they have learned.
But what matter about that! They are old people: they recover in their
own way, they laugh in their own way; mine ears have already endured
worse and have not become peevish.
This day is a victory: he already yieldeth, he fleeth, THE SPIRIT OF
GRAVITY, mine old arch-enemy! How well this day is about to end, which
began so badly and gloomily!
And it is ABOUT TO end. Already cometh the evening: over the sea
rideth it hither, the good rider! How it bobbeth, the blessed one, the
home-returning one, in its purple saddles!
The sky gazeth brightly thereon, the world lieth deep. Oh, all ye
strange ones who have come to me, it is already worth while to have
lived with me!”
Thus spake Zarathustra. And again came the cries and laughter of the
higher men out of the cave: then began he anew:
“They bite at it, my bait taketh, there departeth also from them their
enemy, the spirit of gravity. Now do they learn to laugh at themselves:
do I hear rightly?
My virile food taketh effect, my strong and savoury sayings: and verily,
I did not nourish them with flatulent vegetables! But with warrior-food,
with conqueror-food: new desires did I awaken.
New hopes are in their arms and legs, their hearts expand. They find new
words, soon will their spirits breathe wantonness.
Such food may sure enough not be proper for children, nor even for
longing girls old and young. One persuadeth their bowels otherwise; I am
not their physician and teacher.
The DISGUST departeth from these higher men; well! that is my victory.
In my domain they become assured; all stupid shame fleeth away; they
empty themselves.
They empty their hearts, good times return unto them, they keep holiday
and ruminate,—they become THANKFUL.
THAT do I take as the best sign: they become thankful. Not long will it
be ere they devise festivals, and put up memorials to their old joys.
They are CONVALESCENTS!” Thus spake Zarathustra joyfully to his heart
and gazed outward; his animals, however, pressed up to him, and honoured
his happiness and his silence.
2.
All on a sudden however, Zarathustra’s ear was frightened: for the cave
which had hitherto been full of noise and laughter, became all at once
still as death;—his nose, however, smelt a sweet-scented vapour and
incense-odour, as if from burning pine-cones.
“What happeneth? What are they about?” he asked himself, and stole up
to the entrance, that he might be able unobserved to see his guests.
But wonder upon wonder! what was he then obliged to behold with his own
eyes!