No More Learning

When however he again came
to himself, then was he pale and trembling, and remained lying; and for
long he would neither eat nor drink. This condition continued for seven
days; his animals, however, did not leave him day nor night, except that
the eagle flew forth to fetch food. And what it fetched and foraged,
it laid on Zarathustra's couch: so that Zarathustra at last lay among
yellow and red berries, grapes, rosy apples, sweet-smelling herbage, and
pine-cones. At his feet, however, two lambs were stretched, which the
eagle had with difficulty carried off from their shepherds.

At last, after seven days, Zarathustra raised himself upon his couch,
took a rosy apple in his hand, smelt it and found its smell pleasant.
Then did his animals think the time had come to speak unto him.

"O Zarathustra," said they, "now hast thou lain thus for seven days with
heavy eyes: wilt thou not set thyself again upon thy feet?

Step out of thy cave: the world waiteth for thee as a garden. The wind
playeth with heavy fragrance which seeketh for thee; and all brooks
would like to run after thee.

All things long for thee, since thou hast remained alone for seven
days--step forth out of thy cave! All things want to be thy physicians!

Did perhaps a new knowledge come to thee, a bitter, grievous knowledge?
Like leavened dough layest thou, thy soul arose and swelled beyond all
its bounds. --"

--O mine animals, answered Zarathustra, talk on thus and let me listen!
It refresheth me so to hear your talk: where there is talk, there is the
world as a garden unto me.

How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and
tones rainbows and seeming bridges 'twixt the eternally separated?

To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a
back-world.

Among the most alike doth semblance deceive most delightfully: for the
smallest gap is most difficult to bridge over.

For me--how could there be an outside-of-me? There is no outside! But
this we forget on hearing tones; how delightful it is that we forget!

Have not names and tones been given unto things that man may refresh
himself with them? It is a beautiful folly, speaking; therewith danceth
man over everything.

How lovely is all speech and all falsehoods of tones! With tones danceth
our love on variegated rainbows. --

--"O Zarathustra," said then his animals, "to those who think like us,
things all dance themselves: they come and hold out the hand and laugh
and flee--and return.

Everything goeth, everything returneth; eternally rolleth the wheel
of existence. Everything dieth, everything blossometh forth again;
eternally runneth on the year of existence.

Everything breaketh, everything is integrated anew; eternally buildeth
itself the same house of existence. All things separate, all things
again greet one another; eternally true to itself remaineth the ring of
existence.

Every moment beginneth existence, around every 'Here' rolleth the ball
'There. ' The middle is everywhere. Crooked is the path of eternity. "--

--O ye wags and barrel-organs! answered Zarathustra, and smiled once
more, how well do ye know what had to be fulfilled in seven days:--

--And how that monster crept into my throat and choked me! But I bit off
its head and spat it away from me.

And ye--ye have made a lyre-lay out of it? Now, however, do I lie here,
still exhausted with that biting and spitting-away, still sick with mine
own salvation.

AND YE LOOKED ON AT IT ALL? O mine animals, are ye also cruel? Did
ye like to look at my great pain as men do? For man is the cruellest
animal.

At tragedies, bull-fights, and crucifixions hath he hitherto been
happiest on earth; and when he invented his hell, behold, that was his
heaven on earth.

When the great man crieth--: immediately runneth the little man thither,
and his tongue hangeth out of his mouth for very lusting. He, however,
calleth it his "pity. "

The little man, especially the poet--how passionately doth he accuse
life in words! Hearken to him, but do not fail to hear the delight which
is in all accusation!

Such accusers of life--them life overcometh with a glance of the eye.
"Thou lovest me? " saith the insolent one; "wait a little, as yet have I
no time for thee. "

Towards himself man is the cruellest animal; and in all who call
themselves "sinners" and "bearers of the cross" and "penitents," do not
overlook the voluptuousness in their plaints and accusations!

And I myself--do I thereby want to be man's accuser? Ah, mine animals,
this only have I learned hitherto, that for man his baddest is necessary
for his best,--

--That all that is baddest is the best POWER, and the hardest stone for
the highest creator; and that man must become better AND badder:--

Not to THIS torture-stake was I tied, that I know man is bad,--but I
cried, as no one hath yet cried:

"Ah, that his baddest is so very small! Ah, that his best is so very
small! "

The great disgust at man--IT strangled me and had crept into my throat:
and what the soothsayer had presaged: "All is alike, nothing is worth
while, knowledge strangleth. "

A long twilight limped on before me, a fatally weary, fatally
intoxicated sadness, which spake with yawning mouth.

"Eternally he returneth, the man of whom thou art weary, the small
man"--so yawned my sadness, and dragged its foot and could not go to
sleep.

A cavern, became the human earth to me; its breast caved in; everything
living became to me human dust and bones and mouldering past.

My sighing sat on all human graves, and could no longer arise: my
sighing and questioning croaked and choked, and gnawed and nagged day
and night:

--"Ah, man returneth eternally! The small man returneth eternally! "

Naked had I once seen both of them, the greatest man and the smallest
man: all too like one another--all too human, even the greatest man!

All too small, even the greatest man! --that was my disgust at man! And
the eternal return also of the smallest man! --that was my disgust at all
existence!

Ah, Disgust! Disgust! Disgust! --Thus spake Zarathustra, and sighed and
shuddered; for he remembered his sickness. Then did his animals prevent
him from speaking further.

"Do not speak further, thou convalescent! "--so answered his animals,
"but go out where the world waiteth for thee like a garden.

Go out unto the roses, the bees, and the flocks of doves! Especially,
however, unto the singing-birds, to learn SINGING from them!

For singing is for the convalescent; the sound ones may talk. And
when the sound also want songs, then want they other songs than the
convalescent. "

--"O ye wags and barrel-organs, do be silent! " answered Zarathustra, and
smiled at his animals. "How well ye know what consolation I devised for
myself in seven days!

That I have to sing once more--THAT consolation did I devise for myself,
and THIS convalescence: would ye also make another lyre-lay thereof? "

--"Do not talk further," answered his animals once more; "rather, thou
convalescent, prepare for thyself first a lyre, a new lyre!

For behold, O Zarathustra! For thy new lays there are needed new lyres.

Sing and bubble over, O Zarathustra, heal thy soul with new lays: that
thou mayest bear thy great fate, which hath not yet been any one's fate!

For thine animals know it well, O Zarathustra, who thou art and must
become: behold, THOU ART THE TEACHER OF THE ETERNAL RETURN,--that is now
THY fate!

That thou must be the first to teach this teaching--how could this great
fate not be thy greatest danger and infirmity!

Behold, we know what thou teachest: that all things eternally return,
and ourselves with them, and that we have already existed times without
number, and all things with us.

Thou teachest that there is a great year of Becoming, a prodigy of a
great year; it must, like a sand-glass, ever turn up anew, that it may
anew run down and run out:--

--So that all those years are like one another in the greatest and also
in the smallest, so that we ourselves, in every great year, are like
ourselves in the greatest and also in the smallest.

And if thou wouldst now die, O Zarathustra, behold, we know also how
thou wouldst then speak to thyself:--but thine animals beseech thee not
to die yet!

Thou wouldst speak, and without trembling, buoyant rather with bliss,
for a great weight and worry would be taken from thee, thou patientest
one! --

'Now do I die and disappear,' wouldst thou say, 'and in a moment I am
nothing. Souls are as mortal as bodies.

But the plexus of causes returneth in which I am intertwined,--it will
again create me! I myself pertain to the causes of the eternal return.

I come again with this sun, with this earth, with this eagle, with this
serpent--NOT to a new life, or a better life, or a similar life:

--I come again eternally to this identical and selfsame life, in its
greatest and its smallest, to teach again the eternal return of all
things,--

--To speak again the word of the great noontide of earth and man, to
announce again to man the Superman.

I have spoken my word. I break down by my word: so willeth mine eternal
fate--as announcer do I succumb!

The hour hath now come for the down-goer to bless himself. Thus--ENDETH
Zarathustra's down-going. '"--

When the animals had spoken these words they were silent and waited, so
that Zarathustra might say something to them: but Zarathustra did not
hear that they were silent. On the contrary, he lay quietly with closed
eyes like a person sleeping, although he did not sleep; for he communed
just then with his soul. The serpent, however, and the eagle, when they
found him silent in such wise, respected the great stillness around him,
and prudently retired.




LVIII. THE GREAT LONGING.

O my soul, I have taught thee to say "to-day" as "once on a time" and
"formerly," and to dance thy measure over every Here and There and
Yonder.

O my soul, I delivered thee from all by-places, I brushed down from thee
dust and spiders and twilight.

O my soul, I washed the petty shame and the by-place virtue from thee,
and persuaded thee to stand naked before the eyes of the sun.

With the storm that is called "spirit" did I blow over thy surging
sea; all clouds did I blow away from it; I strangled even the strangler
called "sin. "

O my soul, I gave thee the right to say Nay like the storm, and to say
Yea as the open heaven saith Yea: calm as the light remainest thou, and
now walkest through denying storms.

O my soul, I restored to thee liberty over the created and the
uncreated; and who knoweth, as thou knowest, the voluptuousness of the
future?

O my soul, I taught thee the contempt which doth not come like
worm-eating, the great, the loving contempt, which loveth most where it
contemneth most.

O my soul, I taught thee so to persuade that thou persuadest even the
grounds themselves to thee: like the sun, which persuadeth even the sea
to its height.

O my soul, I have taken from thee all obeying and knee-bending and
homage-paying; I have myself given thee the names, "Change of need" and
"Fate. "

O my soul, I have given thee new names and gay-coloured playthings,
I have called thee "Fate" and "the Circuit of circuits" and "the
Navel-string of time" and "the Azure bell. "

O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom to drink, all new wines, and
also all immemorially old strong wines of wisdom.

O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every silence
and every longing:--then grewest thou up for me as a vine.

O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine with
swelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes:--

--Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance, and
yet ashamed of thy waiting.

O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and more
comprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past be closer
together than with thee?

O my soul, I have given thee everything, and all my hands have become
empty by thee:--and now! Now sayest thou to me, smiling and full of
melancholy: "Which of us oweth thanks? --

--Doth the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Is
bestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not--pitying? "--

O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine
over-abundance itself now stretcheth out longing hands!

Thy fulness looketh forth over raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth: the
longing of over-fulness looketh forth from the smiling heaven of thine
eyes!

And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy smiling and not melt
into tears? The angels themselves melt into tears through the
over-graciousness of thy smiling.

Thy graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain
and weep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy
trembling mouth for sobs.

"Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing? " Thus
speakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather
smile than pour forth thy grief--

--Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy
fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and
vintage-knife!

But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy,
then wilt thou have to SING, O my soul! --Behold, I smile myself, who
foretell thee this:

--Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm
to hearken unto thy longing,--

--Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel,
around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:--

--Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light
marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths,--

--Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: he,
however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife,--

--Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one--for whom future
songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the
fragrance of future songs,--

--Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest thou thirstily at
all deep echoing wells of consolation, already reposeth thy melancholy
in the bliss of future songs! --

O my soul, now have I given thee all, and even my last possession, and
all my hands have become empty by thee:--THAT I BADE THEE SING, behold,
that was my last thing to give!

That I bade thee sing,--say now, say: WHICH of us now--oweth thanks? --
Better still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my soul! And let me thank
thee! --

Thus spake Zarathustra.




LIX. THE SECOND DANCE-SONG.

1.

"Into thine eyes gazed I lately, O Life: gold saw I gleam in thy
night-eyes,--my heart stood still with delight:

--A golden bark saw I gleam on darkened waters, a sinking, drinking,
reblinking, golden swing-bark!

At my dance-frantic foot, dost thou cast a glance, a laughing,
questioning, melting, thrown glance:

Twice only movedst thou thy rattle with thy little hands--then did my
feet swing with dance-fury. --

My heels reared aloft, my toes they hearkened,--thee they would know:
hath not the dancer his ear--in his toe!

Unto thee did I spring: then fledst thou back from my bound; and towards
me waved thy fleeing, flying tresses round!

Away from thee did I spring, and from thy snaky tresses: then stoodst
thou there half-turned, and in thine eye caresses.

With crooked glances--dost thou teach me crooked courses; on crooked
courses learn my feet--crafty fancies!

I fear thee near, I love thee far; thy flight allureth me, thy seeking
secureth me:--I suffer, but for thee, what would I not gladly bear!

For thee, whose coldness inflameth, whose hatred misleadeth, whose
flight enchaineth, whose mockery--pleadeth:

--Who would not hate thee, thou great bindress, inwindress, temptress,
seekress, findress! Who would not love thee, thou innocent, impatient,
wind-swift, child-eyed sinner!

Whither pullest thou me now, thou paragon and tomboy? And now foolest
thou me fleeing; thou sweet romp dost annoy!

I dance after thee, I follow even faint traces lonely. Where art thou?
Give me thy hand! Or thy finger only!

Here are caves and thickets: we shall go astray! --Halt! Stand still!
Seest thou not owls and bats in fluttering fray?

Thou bat! Thou owl! Thou wouldst play me foul? Where are we? From the
dogs hast thou learned thus to bark and howl.

Thou gnashest on me sweetly with little white teeth; thine evil eyes
shoot out upon me, thy curly little mane from underneath!

This is a dance over stock and stone: I am the hunter,--wilt thou be my
hound, or my chamois anon?

Now beside me! And quickly, wickedly springing! Now up! And over! --Alas!
I have fallen myself overswinging!

Oh, see me lying, thou arrogant one, and imploring grace! Gladly would I
walk with thee--in some lovelier place!

--In the paths of love, through bushes variegated, quiet, trim! Or there
along the lake, where gold-fishes dance and swim!

Thou art now a-weary? There above are sheep and sun-set stripes: is it
not sweet to sleep--the shepherd pipes?

Thou art so very weary? I carry thee thither; let just thine arm sink!
And art thou thirsty--I should have something; but thy mouth would not
like it to drink! --

--Oh, that cursed, nimble, supple serpent and lurking-witch! Where art
thou gone? But in my face do I feel through thy hand, two spots and red
blotches itch!

I am verily weary of it, ever thy sheepish shepherd to be. Thou witch,
if I have hitherto sung unto thee, now shalt THOU--cry unto me!

To the rhythm of my whip shalt thou dance and cry! I forget not my
whip? --Not I! "--

2.

Then did Life answer me thus, and kept thereby her fine ears closed:

"O Zarathustra! Crack not so terribly with thy whip! Thou knowest surely
that noise killeth thought,--and just now there came to me such delicate
thoughts.

We are both of us genuine ne'er-do-wells and ne'er-do-ills. Beyond
good and evil found we our island and our green meadow--we two alone!
Therefore must we be friendly to each other!
And even should we not love each other from the bottom of our
hearts,--must we then have a grudge against each other if we do not love
each other perfectly?

And that I am friendly to thee, and often too friendly, that knowest
thou: and the reason is that I am envious of thy Wisdom. Ah, this mad
old fool, Wisdom!

If thy Wisdom should one day run away from thee, ah! then would also my
love run away from thee quickly. "--

Thereupon did Life look thoughtfully behind and around, and said softly:
"O Zarathustra, thou art not faithful enough to me!

Thou lovest me not nearly so much as thou sayest; I know thou thinkest
of soon leaving me.

There is an old heavy, heavy, booming-clock: it boometh by night up to
thy cave:--

--When thou hearest this clock strike the hours at midnight, then
thinkest thou between one and twelve thereon--

--Thou thinkest thereon, O Zarathustra, I know it--of soon leaving
me! "--

"Yea," answered I, hesitatingly, "but thou knowest it also"--And I
said something into her ear, in amongst her confused, yellow, foolish
tresses.

"Thou KNOWEST that, O Zarathustra? That knoweth no one--"

And we gazed at each other, and looked at the green meadow o'er which
the cool evening was just passing, and we wept together. --Then, however,
was Life dearer unto me than all my Wisdom had ever been. --

Thus spake Zarathustra.

3.

One!

O man! Take heed!

Two!

What saith deep midnight's voice indeed?

Three!

"I slept my sleep--

Four!

"From deepest dream I've woke and plead:--

Five!

"The world is deep,

Six!

"And deeper than the day could read.

Seven!

"Deep is its woe--

Eight!

"Joy--deeper still than grief can be:

Nine!

"Woe saith: Hence! Go!

Ten!

"But joys all want eternity--

Eleven!

"Want deep profound eternity! "

Twelve!




LX. THE SEVEN SEALS.

(OR THE YEA AND AMEN LAY. )

1.

If I be a diviner and full of the divining spirit which wandereth on
high mountain-ridges, 'twixt two seas,--

Wandereth 'twixt the past and the future as a heavy cloud--hostile to
sultry plains, and to all that is weary and can neither die nor live:

Ready for lightning in its dark bosom, and for the redeeming flash of
light, charged with lightnings which say Yea! which laugh Yea! ready for
divining flashes of lightning:--

--Blessed, however, is he who is thus charged! And verily, long must he
hang like a heavy tempest on the mountain, who shall one day kindle the
light of the future! --

Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

2.

If ever my wrath hath burst graves, shifted landmarks, or rolled old
shattered tables into precipitous depths:

If ever my scorn hath scattered mouldered words to the winds, and if I
have come like a besom to cross-spiders, and as a cleansing wind to old
charnel-houses:

If ever I have sat rejoicing where old Gods lie buried, world-blessing,
world-loving, beside the monuments of old world-maligners:--

--For even churches and Gods'-graves do I love, if only heaven looketh
through their ruined roofs with pure eyes; gladly do I sit like grass
and red poppies on ruined churches--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

3.

If ever a breath hath come to me of the creative breath, and of the
heavenly necessity which compelleth even chances to dance star-dances:

If ever I have laughed with the laughter of the creative lightning,
to which the long thunder of the deed followeth, grumblingly, but
obediently:

If ever I have played dice with the Gods at the divine table of
the earth, so that the earth quaked and ruptured, and snorted forth
fire-streams:--

--For a divine table is the earth, and trembling with new creative
dictums and dice-casts of the Gods:

Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

4.

If ever I have drunk a full draught of the foaming spice- and
confection-bowl in which all things are well mixed:

If ever my hand hath mingled the furthest with the nearest, fire with
spirit, joy with sorrow, and the harshest with the kindest:

If I myself am a grain of the saving salt which maketh everything in the
confection-bowl mix well:--

--For there is a salt which uniteth good with evil; and even the evilest
is worthy, as spicing and as final over-foaming:--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

5.

If I be fond of the sea, and all that is sealike, and fondest of it when
it angrily contradicteth me:

If the exploring delight be in me, which impelleth sails to the
undiscovered, if the seafarer's delight be in my delight:

If ever my rejoicing hath called out: "The shore hath vanished,--now
hath fallen from me the last chain--

The boundless roareth around me, far away sparkle for me space and
time,--well! cheer up! old heart! "--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

6.

If my virtue be a dancer's virtue, and if I have often sprung with both
feet into golden-emerald rapture:

If my wickedness be a laughing wickedness, at home among rose-banks and
hedges of lilies:

--For in laughter is all evil present, but it is sanctified and absolved
by its own bliss:--

And if it be my Alpha and Omega that everything heavy shall become
light, every body a dancer, and every spirit a bird: and verily, that is
my Alpha and Omega! --

Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!

7.

If ever I have spread out a tranquil heaven above me, and have flown
into mine own heaven with mine own pinions:

If I have swum playfully in profound luminous distances, and if my
freedom's avian wisdom hath come to me:--

--Thus however speaketh avian wisdom:--"Lo, there is no above and no
below! Throw thyself about,--outward, backward, thou light one! Sing!
speak no more!

--Are not all words made for the heavy? Do not all words lie to the
light ones? Sing! speak no more! "--

Oh, how could I not be ardent for Eternity, and for the marriage-ring of
rings--the ring of the return?

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children,
unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

FOR I LOVE THEE, O ETERNITY!




FOURTH AND LAST PART.

Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the
pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the
follies of the pitiful?

Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their
pity!

Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: "Even God hath his hell:
it is his love for man. "

And lately did I hear him say these words: "God is dead: of his pity for
man hath God died. "--ZARATHUSTRA, II. , "The Pitiful. "




LXI. THE HONEY SACRIFICE.

--And again passed moons and years over Zarathustra's soul, and he
heeded it not; his hair, however, became white. One day when he sat on
a stone in front of his cave, and gazed calmly into the distance--one
there gazeth out on the sea, and away beyond sinuous abysses,--then went
his animals thoughtfully round about him, and at last set themselves in
front of him.

"O Zarathustra," said they, "gazest thou out perhaps for thy
happiness? "--"Of what account is my happiness! " answered he, "I have
long ceased to strive any more for happiness, I strive for my work. "--"O
Zarathustra," said the animals once more, "that sayest thou as one
who hath overmuch of good things. Liest thou not in a sky-blue lake of
happiness? "--"Ye wags," answered Zarathustra, and smiled, "how well did
ye choose the simile! But ye know also that my happiness is heavy, and
not like a fluid wave of water: it presseth me and will not leave me,
and is like molten pitch. "--

Then went his animals again thoughtfully around him, and placed
themselves once more in front of him. "O Zarathustra," said they, "it is
consequently FOR THAT REASON that thou thyself always becometh yellower
and darker, although thy hair looketh white and flaxen? Lo, thou sittest
in thy pitch! "--"What do ye say, mine animals? " said Zarathustra,
laughing; "verily I reviled when I spake of pitch. As it happeneth with
me, so is it with all fruits that turn ripe. It is the HONEY in my veins
that maketh my blood thicker, and also my soul stiller. "--"So will it
be, O Zarathustra," answered his animals, and pressed up to him; "but
wilt thou not to-day ascend a high mountain? The air is pure, and to-day
one seeth more of the world than ever. "--"Yea, mine animals," answered
he, "ye counsel admirably and according to my heart: I will to-day
ascend a high mountain! But see that honey is there ready to hand,
yellow, white, good, ice-cool, golden-comb-honey. For know that when
aloft I will make the honey-sacrifice. "--

When Zarathustra, however, was aloft on the summit, he sent his animals
home that had accompanied him, and found that he was now alone:--then he
laughed from the bottom of his heart, looked around him, and spake thus:

That I spake of sacrifices and honey-sacrifices, it was merely a ruse
in talking and verily, a useful folly! Here aloft can I now speak freer
than in front of mountain-caves and anchorites' domestic animals.

What to sacrifice! I squander what is given me, a squanderer with a
thousand hands: how could I call that--sacrificing?

And when I desired honey I only desired bait, and sweet mucus and
mucilage, for which even the mouths of growling bears, and strange,
sulky, evil birds, water:

--The best bait, as huntsmen and fishermen require it. For if the world
be as a gloomy forest of animals, and a pleasure-ground for all wild
huntsmen, it seemeth to me rather--and preferably--a fathomless, rich
sea;

--A sea full of many-hued fishes and crabs, for which even the Gods
might long, and might be tempted to become fishers in it, and casters of
nets,--so rich is the world in wonderful things, great and small!

Especially the human world, the human sea:--towards IT do I now throw
out my golden angle-rod and say: Open up, thou human abyss!

Open up, and throw unto me thy fish and shining crabs! With my best bait
shall I allure to myself to-day the strangest human fish!

--My happiness itself do I throw out into all places far and wide 'twixt
orient, noontide, and occident, to see if many human fish will not learn
to hug and tug at my happiness;--

Until, biting at my sharp hidden hooks, they have to come up unto MY
height, the motleyest abyss-groundlings, to the wickedest of all fishers
of men.

For THIS am I from the heart and from the beginning--drawing,
hither-drawing, upward-drawing, upbringing; a drawer, a trainer, a
training-master, who not in vain counselled himself once on a time:
"Become what thou art! "

Thus may men now come UP to me; for as yet do I await the signs that it
is time for my down-going; as yet do I not myself go down, as I must do,
amongst men.

Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high mountains,
no impatient one, no patient one; rather one who hath even unlearnt
patience,--because he no longer "suffereth. "

For my fate giveth me time: it hath forgotten me perhaps? Or doth it sit
behind a big stone and catch flies?

And verily, I am well-disposed to mine eternal fate, because it doth not
hound and hurry me, but leaveth me time for merriment and mischief; so
that I have to-day ascended this high mountain to catch fish.

Did ever any one catch fish upon high mountains? And though it be a
folly what I here seek and do, it is better so than that down below I
should become solemn with waiting, and green and yellow--

--A posturing wrath-snorter with waiting, a holy howl-storm from
the mountains, an impatient one that shouteth down into the valleys:
"Hearken, else I will scourge you with the scourge of God! "

Not that I would have a grudge against such wrathful ones on that
account: they are well enough for laughter to me! Impatient must they
now be, those big alarm-drums, which find a voice now or never!

Myself, however, and my fate--we do not talk to the Present, neither
do we talk to the Never: for talking we have patience and time and more
than time. For one day must it yet come, and may not pass by.

What must one day come and may not pass by? Our great Hazar, that is
to say, our great, remote human-kingdom, the Zarathustra-kingdom of a
thousand years--

How remote may such "remoteness" be? What doth it concern me? But on
that account it is none the less sure unto me--, with both feet stand I
secure on this ground;

--On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on this highest, hardest,
primary mountain-ridge, unto which all winds come, as unto the
storm-parting, asking Where? and Whence? and Whither?

Here laugh, laugh, my hearty, healthy wickedness! From high mountains
cast down thy glittering scorn-laughter! Allure for me with thy
glittering the finest human fish!

And whatever belongeth unto ME in all seas, my in-and-for-me in all
things--fish THAT out for me, bring THAT up to me: for that do I wait,
the wickedest of all fish-catchers.

Out! out! my fishing-hook! In and down, thou bait of my happiness! Drip
thy sweetest dew, thou honey of my heart! Bite, my fishing-hook, into
the belly of all black affliction!

Look out, look out, mine eye! Oh, how many seas round about me, what
dawning human futures! And above me--what rosy red stillness! What
unclouded silence!




LXII. THE CRY OF DISTRESS.

The next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone in front of his cave,
whilst his animals roved about in the world outside to bring home new
food,--also new honey: for Zarathustra had spent and wasted the old
honey to the very last particle. When he thus sat, however, with a
stick in his hand, tracing the shadow of his figure on the earth, and
reflecting--verily! not upon himself and his shadow,--all at once he
startled and shrank back: for he saw another shadow beside his own.
And when he hastily looked around and stood up, behold, there stood the
soothsayer beside him, the same whom he had once given to eat and drink
at his table, the proclaimer of the great weariness, who taught: "All is
alike, nothing is worth while, the world is without meaning, knowledge
strangleth. " But his face had changed since then; and when Zarathustra
looked into his eyes, his heart was startled once more: so much evil
announcement and ashy-grey lightnings passed over that countenance.

The soothsayer, who had perceived what went on in Zarathustra's soul,
wiped his face with his hand, as if he would wipe out the impression;
the same did also Zarathustra. And when both of them had thus silently
composed and strengthened themselves, they gave each other the hand, as
a token that they wanted once more to recognise each other.

"Welcome hither," said Zarathustra, "thou soothsayer of the great
weariness, not in vain shalt thou once have been my messmate and guest.
Eat and drink also with me to-day, and forgive it that a cheerful old
man sitteth with thee at table! "--"A cheerful old man? " answered the
soothsayer, shaking his head, "but whoever thou art, or wouldst be, O
Zarathustra, thou hast been here aloft the longest time,--in a little
while thy bark shall no longer rest on dry land! "--"Do I then rest
on dry land? "--asked Zarathustra, laughing. --"The waves around thy
mountain," answered the soothsayer, "rise and rise, the waves of great
distress and affliction: they will soon raise thy bark also and carry
thee away. "--Thereupon was Zarathustra silent and wondered. --"Dost thou
still hear nothing? " continued the soothsayer: "doth it not rush and
roar out of the depth? "--Zarathustra was silent once more and listened:
then heard he a long, long cry, which the abysses threw to one another
and passed on; for none of them wished to retain it: so evil did it
sound.

"Thou ill announcer," said Zarathustra at last, "that is a cry of
distress, and the cry of a man; it may come perhaps out of a black sea.
But what doth human distress matter to me! My last sin which hath been
reserved for me,--knowest thou what it is called? "

--"PITY! " answered the soothsayer from an overflowing heart, and raised
both his hands aloft--"O Zarathustra, I have come that I may seduce thee
to thy last sin! "--

And hardly had those words been uttered when there sounded the cry
once more, and longer and more alarming than before--also much nearer.
"Hearest thou? Hearest thou, O Zarathustra? " called out the soothsayer,
"the cry concerneth thee, it calleth thee: Come, come, come; it is time,
it is the highest time! "--

Zarathustra was silent thereupon, confused and staggered; at last he
asked, like one who hesitateth in himself: "And who is it that there
calleth me? "

"But thou knowest it, certainly," answered the soothsayer warmly, "why
dost thou conceal thyself? It is THE HIGHER MAN that crieth for thee! "

"The higher man? " cried Zarathustra, horror-stricken: "what wanteth HE?
What wanteth HE? The higher man! What wanteth he here? "--and his skin
covered with perspiration.

The soothsayer, however, did not heed Zarathustra's alarm, but listened
and listened in the downward direction. When, however, it had been still
there for a long while, he looked behind, and saw Zarathustra standing
trembling.

"O Zarathustra," he began, with sorrowful voice, "thou dost not stand
there like one whose happiness maketh him giddy: thou wilt have to dance
lest thou tumble down!

But although thou shouldst dance before me, and leap all thy side-leaps,
no one may say unto me: 'Behold, here danceth the last joyous man! '

In vain would any one come to this height who sought HIM here: caves
would he find, indeed, and back-caves, hiding-places for hidden ones;
but not lucky mines, nor treasure-chambers, nor new gold-veins of
happiness.

Happiness--how indeed could one find happiness among such buried-alive
and solitary ones! Must I yet seek the last happiness on the Happy
Isles, and far away among forgotten seas?

But all is alike, nothing is worth while, no seeking is of service,
there are no longer any Happy Isles! "--

Thus sighed the soothsayer; with his last sigh, however, Zarathustra
again became serene and assured, like one who hath come out of a deep
chasm into the light. "Nay!