-What
happeneth
to me?
Nietzsche - v11 - Thus Spake Zarathustra
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of
truth: then did it kick me on the face. Some-
times I meant to lie, and behold! then only did
I hit—the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me: now it
doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth
## p. 335 (#515) ############################################
LXIX. —THE SHADOW. 335
any longer that I love,—how should I still love
myself?
'To live as I incline, or not to live at all': so do
I wish; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas!
how have / still—inclination?
Have /—still a goal? A haven towards which my
sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth
whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and
a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and
flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a
broken backbone.
This seeking for my home: O Zarathustra, dost
thou know that this seeking hath been my home-
sickening; it eateth me up.
'Where is—my home? ' For it do I ask and
seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O
eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal
—in-vain! "
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's coun-
tenance lengthened at his words. "Thou art my
shadow ! " said he at last sadly.
"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and
wanderer! Thou hast had a bad day: see that a
still worse evening doth not overtake thee!
To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last
even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how
captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they
enjoy their new security.
Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture
thee, a hard, rigorous delusion! For now every-
## p. 335 (#516) ############################################
334 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and
hie longest; and though I hid myself from thee,
I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou
hast sat, there sat I also.
With thee have I wandered about in the re-
motest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that
voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden,
all the worst and the furthest: and if there be any-
thing of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear
of any prohibition.
With thee have I broken up whatever my heart
revered; all boundary-stones and statues have I
o'erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I
pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and
worths and in great names. When the devil
casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away?
It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin.
'Nothing is true, all is permitted': so said I to
myself. Into the coldest water did I plunge with
head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand there
naked on that account, like a red crab!
Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my
shame and all my belief in the good! Ah, where
is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the
innocence of the good and of their noble lies!
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of
truth: then did it kick me on the face. Some-
times I meant to lie, and behold! then only did
I hit—the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me: now it
doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth
## p. 335 (#517) ############################################
LXIX. —THE SHADOW. 335
any longer that I love,—how should I still love
myself?
'To live as I incline, or not to live at all': so do
I wish; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas!
how have / still—inclination?
Have /—still a goal? A haven towards which my
sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth
whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and
a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and
flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a
broken backbone.
This seeking for my home: O Zarathustra, dost
thou know that this seeking hath been my home-
sickening; it eateth me up.
'Where is—my home? ' For it do I ask and
seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O
eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal
—in-vain! "
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's coun-
tenance lengthened at his words. "Thou art my
shadow ! " said he at last sadly.
"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and
wanderer! Thou hast had a bad day: see that a
still worse evening doth not overtake thee!
To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last
even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how
captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they
enjoy their new security.
Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture
thee, a hard, rigorous delusion! For now every-
## p. 335 (#518) ############################################
334 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and
hie longest; and though I hid myself from thee,
I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou
hast sat, there sat I also.
With thee have I wandered about in the re-
motest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that
voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden,
all the worst and the furthest: and if there be any-
thing of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear
of any prohibition.
With thee have I broken up whatever my heart
revered; all boundary-stones and statues have I
o'erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I
pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and
worths and in great names. When the devil
casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away?
It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin.
'Nothing is true, all is permitted ': so said I to
myself. Into the coldest water did I plunge with
head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand there
naked on that account, like a red crab!
Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my
shame and all my belief in the good! Ah, where
is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the
innocence of the good and of their noble lies!
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of
truth: then did it kick me on the face. Some-
times I meant to lie, and behold! then only did
I hit—the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me: now it
doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth
## p. 335 (#519) ############################################
LXIX. —THE SHADOW. 335
any longer that I love,—how should I still love
myself?
'To live as I incline, or not to live at all': so do
I wish; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas!
how have / still—inclination?
Have /—still a goal? A haven towards which my
sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth
whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and
a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and
flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a
broken backbone.
This seeking for my home: O Zarathustra, dost
thou know that this seeking hath been my home-
sickening; it eateth me up.
'Where is—my home? ' For it do I ask and
seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O
eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal
—in-vain! "
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's coun-
tenance lengthened at his words. "Thou art my
shadow ! " said he at last sadly.
"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and
wanderer! Thou hast had a bad day: see that a
still worse evening doth not overtake thee!
To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last
even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how
captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they
enjoy their new security.
Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture
thee, a hard, rigorous delusion! For now every-
## p. 336 (#520) ############################################
336 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
thing that is narrow and fixed seduceth and
tempteth thee.
Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas, how wilt thou
forego and forget that loss? Thereby—hast thou
also lost thy way!
Thou poor rover and rambler, thou tired butter-
fly! wilt thou have a rest and a home this evening?
Then go up to my cave!
Thither leadeth the way to my cave. And now
will I run quickly away from thee again. Already
lieth as it were a shadow upon me.
I will run alone, so that it may again become
bright around me. Therefore must I still be a
long time merrily upon my legs. In the evening,
however, there will be—dancing with me! "
Thus spake Zarathustra.
LXX. —NOON-TIDE.
—And Zarathustra ran and ran, but he found no
one else, and was alone and ever found himself
again; he enjoyed and quaffed his solitude, and
thought of good things—for hours. About the
hour of noon-tide, however, when the sun stood
exactly over Zarathustra's head, he passed an old,
bent and gnarled tree, which was encircled round
by the ardent love of a vine, and hidden from itself;
from this there hung yellow grapes in abundance,
confronting the wanderer. Then he felt inclined
to quench a little thirst, and to break off for him-
self a cluster of grapes. When, however, he had
already his arm outstretched for that purpose, he
## p. 337 (#521) ############################################
LXX. -NOON-TIDE.
337
felt still more inclined for something else—namely,
to lie down beside the tree at the hour of perfect
noon-tide and sleep.
This Zarathustra did; and no sooner had he
laid himself on the ground in the stillness and
secrecy of the variegated grass, than he had for-
gotten his little thirst, and fell asleep. For as the
proverb of Zarathustra saith: “One thing is more
necessary than the other. ” Only that his eyes
remained open :—for they never grew weary of
viewing and admiring the tree and the love of the
vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra spake
thus to his heart :
“Hush! Hush! Hath not the world now be-
come perfect? What hath happened unto me?
As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon par-
queted seas, light, feather-light, so-danceth sleep
upon me.
No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul
awake. Light is it, verily, feather-light.
It persuadeth me, I know not how, it toucheth me
inwardly with a caressing hand, it constraineth me.
Yea, it constraineth me, so that my soul stretcheth
itself out :-
-How long and weary it becometh, my strange
soul! Hath a seventh-day evening come to it pre-
cisely at noon-tide? Hath it already wandered
too long, blissfully, among good and ripe things ?
It stretcheth itself out, long-longer! it lieth still,
my strange soul. Too many good things hath it
already tasted ; this golden sadness oppresseth it,
it distorteth its mouth.
ү
## p. 338 (#522) ############################################
338
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
-As a ship that putteth into the calmest
cove :-it now draweth up to the land, weary of long
voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more
faithful?
As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the
shore :—then it sufficeth for a spider to spin its
thread from the ship to the land. No stronger
ropes are required there.
As such a weary ship in the calmest cove, so do
I also now repose, nigh to the earth, faithful, trust-
ing, waiting, bound to it with the lightest threads.
O happiness! O happiness! Wilt thou perhaps
sing, O my soul? Thou liest in the grass. But
this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd
playeth his pipe.
Take care! Hot noon-tide sleepeth on the fields.
Do not sing! Hush! The world is perfect.
Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul! Do not
even whisper! Lo-hush! The old noon-tide
sleepeth, it moveth its mouth : doth it not just now
drink a drop of happiness-
-An old brown drop of golden happiness,
golden wine? Something whisketh over it, its
happiness laugheth. Thus—laugheth a God.
Hush! -
-'For happiness, how little sufficeth for happi-
ness ! ' Thus spake I once and thought myself
wise. But it was a blasphemy: that have I now
learned. Wise fools speak better.
The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the
lightest thing, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a whisk,
an eye-glance-little maketh up the best happiness.
Hush!
## p. 339 (#523) ############################################
LXX. —NOON-TIDE.
339
-What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time
flown away? Do I not fall? Have I not fallen
-hark! into the well of eternity?
-What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth
me-alas—to the heart? To 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
noon-tide 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
## p. 339 (#524) ############################################
338 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
—As a ship that putteth into the calmest
cove:—it now dravveth up to the land, weary of long
voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more
faithful?
As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the
shore:—then it suffketh for a spider to spin its
thread from the ship to the land. No stronger
ropes are required there.
As such a weary ship in the calmest cove, so do
I also now repose, nigh to the earth, faithful, trust-
ing, waiting, bound to it with the lightest threads.
O happiness! O happiness! Wilt thou perhaps
sing, O my soul? Thou liest in the grass. But
this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd
playeth his pipe.
Take care! Hot noon-tide sleepeth on the fields.
Do not sing! Hush! The world is perfect.
Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul! Do not
even whisper! Lo—hush! The old noon-tide
sleepeth, it moveth its mouth: doth it not just now
drink a drop of happiness—
—An old brown drop of golden happiness,
golden wine? Something whisketh over it, its
happiness laugheth. Thus—laugheth a God.
Hush! —
—' For happiness, how little suffketh for happi-
ness! ' Thus spake I once and thought myself
wise. But it was a blasphemy: that have I now
learned. Wise fools speak better.
The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the
lightest thing, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a whisk,
an eye-glance—little maketh up the best happiness.
Hush!
## p. 339 (#525) ############################################
LXX. —NOON-TIDE. 339
—What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time
flown away? Do I not fall? Have I not fallen
—hark! into the well of eternity?
—What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth
me—alas—to the heart? To 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
noon-tide 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
## p. 340 (#526) ############################################
340 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
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, noon-tide 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 Zarathus-
tra, 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
## p. 341 (#527) ############################################
LXXI. —THE GREETING. 34I
rogether 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 hand-
some 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,
## p. 342 (#528) ############################################
342
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
-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
## p. 343 (#529) ############################################
LXXI. —THE GREETING. 343
given us thy hand and thy greeting, we recognise
tViee as Zarathustra. Thou hast humbled thyself
before us; almost hast thou hurt our reverence—:
—Who however could have humbled himself as
rhou 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,
who 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 moun-
tains 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.
## p. 344 (#530) ############################################
344
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
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, every-
thing 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
## p. 345 (#531) ############################################
LXXI. —THE GREETING. 345
again to hope—unless they learn from thee, O Zara-
thustra, 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," con-
tinued 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, / do not treat my warriors indulgently:
how then could ye be fit for my warfare?
## p. 346 (#532) ############################################
346 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
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.
