No More Learning

And he who hath to be a creator in good and evil--verily, he hath first
to be a destroyer, and break values in pieces.

Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however,
is the creating good. --

Let us SPEAK thereof, ye wisest ones, even though it be bad. To be
silent is worse; all suppressed truths become poisonous.

And let everything break up which--can break up by our truths! Many a
house is still to be built! --

Thus spake Zarathustra.




XXXV. THE SUBLIME ONES.

Calm is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hideth droll
monsters!

Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with swimming enigmas and
laughters.

A sublime one saw I to-day, a solemn one, a penitent of the spirit: Oh,
how my soul laughed at his ugliness!

With upraised breast, and like those who draw in their breath: thus did
he stand, the sublime one, and in silence:

O'erhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his hunting, and rich in torn
raiment; many thorns also hung on him--but I saw no rose.

Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty. Gloomy did this hunter
return from the forest of knowledge.

From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild
beast gazeth out of his seriousness--an unconquered wild beast!

As a tiger doth he ever stand, on the point of springing; but I do not
like those strained souls; ungracious is my taste towards all those
self-engrossed ones.

And ye tell me, friends, that there is to be no dispute about taste and
tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting!

Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas
for every living thing that would live without dispute about weight and
scales and weigher!

Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this sublime one, then only
will his beauty begin--and then only will I taste him and find him
savoury.

And only when he turneth away from himself will he o'erleap his own
shadow--and verily! into HIS sun.

Far too long did he sit in the shade; the cheeks of the penitent of the
spirit became pale; he almost starved on his expectations.

Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hideth in his mouth. To be
sure, he now resteth, but he hath not yet taken rest in the sunshine.

As the ox ought he to do; and his happiness should smell of the earth,
and not of contempt for the earth.

As a white ox would I like to see him, which, snorting and lowing,
walketh before the plough-share: and his lowing should also laud all
that is earthly!

Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand danceth upon it.
O'ershadowed is still the sense of his eye.

His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscureth the
doer. Not yet hath he overcome his deed.

To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want to
see also the eye of the angel.

Also his hero-will hath he still to unlearn: an exalted one shall he
be, and not only a sublime one:--the ether itself should raise him, the
will-less one!

He hath subdued monsters, he hath solved enigmas. But he should also
redeem his monsters and enigmas; into heavenly children should he
transform them.

As yet hath his knowledge not learned to smile, and to be without
jealousy; as yet hath his gushing passion not become calm in beauty.

Verily, not in satiety shall his longing cease and disappear, but in
beauty! Gracefulness belongeth to the munificence of the magnanimous.

His arm across his head: thus should the hero repose; thus should he
also surmount his repose.

But precisely to the hero is BEAUTY the hardest thing of all.
Unattainable is beauty by all ardent wills.

A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the
most here.

To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the
hardest for all of you, ye sublime ones!

When power becometh gracious and descendeth into the visible--I call
such condescension, beauty.

And from no one do I want beauty so much as from thee, thou powerful
one: let thy goodness be thy last self-conquest.

All evil do I accredit to thee: therefore do I desire of thee the good.

Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings, who think themselves good
because they have crippled paws!

The virtue of the pillar shalt thou strive after: more beautiful doth
it ever become, and more graceful--but internally harder and more
sustaining--the higher it riseth.

Yea, thou sublime one, one day shalt thou also be beautiful, and hold up
the mirror to thine own beauty.

Then will thy soul thrill with divine desires; and there will be
adoration even in thy vanity!

For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero hath abandoned it,
then only approacheth it in dreams--the superhero. --

Thus spake Zarathustra.




XXXVI. THE LAND OF CULTURE.

Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me.

And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary.

Then did I fly backwards, homewards--and always faster. Thus did I come
unto you, ye present-day men, and into the land of culture.

For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily,
with longing in my heart did I come.

But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed--I had yet to
laugh! Never did mine eye see anything so motley-coloured!

I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as
well. "Here forsooth, is the home of all the paintpots,"--said I.

With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs--so sat ye there to mine
astonishment, ye present-day men!

And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours,
and repeated it!

Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own
faces! Who could--RECOGNISE you!

Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters
also pencilled over with new characters--thus have ye concealed
yourselves well from all decipherers!

And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that ye have
reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps.

All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all
customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures.

He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures,
would just have enough left to scare the crows.

Verily, I myself am the scared crow that once saw you naked, and without
paint; and I flew away when the skeleton ogled at me.

Rather would I be a day-labourer in the nether-world, and among the
shades of the by-gone! --Fatter and fuller than ye, are forsooth the
nether-worldlings!

This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither endure
you naked nor clothed, ye present-day men!

All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds
shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your "reality. "

For thus speak ye: "Real are we wholly, and without faith and
superstition": thus do ye plume yourselves--alas! even without plumes!

Indeed, how would ye be ABLE to believe, ye divers-coloured ones! --ye
who are pictures of all that hath ever been believed!

Perambulating refutations are ye, of belief itself, and a dislocation of
all thought. UNTRUSTWORTHY ONES: thus do _I_ call you, ye real ones!

All periods prate against one another in your spirits; and the dreams
and pratings of all periods were even realer than your awakeness!

Unfruitful are ye: THEREFORE do ye lack belief. But he who had to
create, had always his presaging dreams and astral premonitions--and
believed in believing! --

Half-open doors are ye, at which grave-diggers wait. And this is YOUR
reality: "Everything deserveth to perish. "

Alas, how ye stand there before me, ye unfruitful ones; how lean your
ribs! And many of you surely have had knowledge thereof.

Many a one hath said: "There hath surely a God filched something from
me secretly whilst I slept? Verily, enough to make a girl for himself
therefrom!

"Amazing is the poverty of my ribs! " thus hath spoken many a present-day
man.

Yea, ye are laughable unto me, ye present-day men! And especially when
ye marvel at yourselves!

And woe unto me if I could not laugh at your marvelling, and had to
swallow all that is repugnant in your platters!

As it is, however, I will make lighter of you, since I have to carry
what is heavy; and what matter if beetles and May-bugs also alight on my
load!

Verily, it shall not on that account become heavier to me! And not from
you, ye present-day men, shall my great weariness arise. --

Ah, whither shall I now ascend with my longing! From all mountains do I
look out for fatherlands and motherlands.

But a home have I found nowhere: unsettled am I in all cities, and
decamping at all gates.

Alien to me, and a mockery, are the present-day men, to whom of late my
heart impelled me; and exiled am I from fatherlands and motherlands.

Thus do I love only my CHILDREN'S LAND, the undiscovered in the remotest
sea: for it do I bid my sails search and search.

Unto my children will I make amends for being the child of my fathers:
and unto all the future--for THIS present-day! --

Thus spake Zarathustra.




XXXVII. IMMACULATE PERCEPTION.

When yester-eve the moon arose, then did I fancy it about to bear a sun:
so broad and teeming did it lie on the horizon.

But it was a liar with its pregnancy; and sooner will I believe in the
man in the moon than in the woman.

To be sure, little of a man is he also, that timid night-reveller.
Verily, with a bad conscience doth he stalk over the roofs.

For he is covetous and jealous, the monk in the moon; covetous of the
earth, and all the joys of lovers.

Nay, I like him not, that tom-cat on the roofs! Hateful unto me are all
that slink around half-closed windows!

Piously and silently doth he stalk along on the star-carpets:--but I
like no light-treading human feet, on which not even a spur jingleth.

Every honest one's step speaketh; the cat however, stealeth along over
the ground. Lo! cat-like doth the moon come along, and dishonestly. --

This parable speak I unto you sentimental dissemblers, unto you, the
"pure discerners! " You do _I_ call--covetous ones!

Also ye love the earth, and the earthly: I have divined you well! --but
shame is in your love, and a bad conscience--ye are like the moon!

To despise the earthly hath your spirit been persuaded, but not your
bowels: these, however, are the strongest in you!

And now is your spirit ashamed to be at the service of your bowels, and
goeth by-ways and lying ways to escape its own shame.

"That would be the highest thing for me"--so saith your lying spirit
unto itself--"to gaze upon life without desire, and not like the dog,
with hanging-out tongue:

To be happy in gazing: with dead will, free from the grip and greed
of selfishness--cold and ashy-grey all over, but with intoxicated
moon-eyes!

That would be the dearest thing to me"--thus doth the seduced one seduce
himself,--"to love the earth as the moon loveth it, and with the eye
only to feel its beauty.

And this do I call IMMACULATE perception of all things: to want nothing
else from them, but to be allowed to lie before them as a mirror with a
hundred facets. "--

Oh, ye sentimental dissemblers, ye covetous ones! Ye lack innocence in
your desire: and now do ye defame desiring on that account!

Verily, not as creators, as procreators, or as jubilators do ye love the
earth!

Where is innocence? Where there is will to procreation. And he who
seeketh to create beyond himself, hath for me the purest will.

Where is beauty? Where I MUST WILL with my whole Will; where I will love
and perish, that an image may not remain merely an image.

Loving and perishing: these have rhymed from eternity. Will to love:
that is to be ready also for death. Thus do I speak unto you cowards!

But now doth your emasculated ogling profess to be "contemplation! "
And that which can be examined with cowardly eyes is to be christened
"beautiful! " Oh, ye violators of noble names!

But it shall be your curse, ye immaculate ones, ye pure discerners, that
ye shall never bring forth, even though ye lie broad and teeming on the
horizon!

Verily, ye fill your mouth with noble words: and we are to believe that
your heart overfloweth, ye cozeners?

But MY words are poor, contemptible, stammering words: gladly do I pick
up what falleth from the table at your repasts.

Yet still can I say therewith the truth--to dissemblers! Yea, my
fish-bones, shells, and prickly leaves shall--tickle the noses of
dissemblers!

Bad air is always about you and your repasts: your lascivious thoughts,
your lies, and secrets are indeed in the air!

Dare only to believe in yourselves--in yourselves and in your inward
parts! He who doth not believe in himself always lieth.

A God's mask have ye hung in front of you, ye "pure ones": into a God's
mask hath your execrable coiling snake crawled.

Verily ye deceive, ye "contemplative ones! " Even Zarathustra was once
the dupe of your godlike exterior; he did not divine the serpent's coil
with which it was stuffed.

A God's soul, I once thought I saw playing in your games, ye pure
discerners! No better arts did I once dream of than your arts!

Serpents' filth and evil odour, the distance concealed from me: and that
a lizard's craft prowled thereabouts lasciviously.

But I came NIGH unto you: then came to me the day,--and now cometh it to
you,--at an end is the moon's love affair!

See there! Surprised and pale doth it stand--before the rosy dawn!

For already she cometh, the glowing one,--HER love to the earth cometh!
Innocence and creative desire, is all solar love!

See there, how she cometh impatiently over the sea! Do ye not feel the
thirst and the hot breath of her love?

At the sea would she suck, and drink its depths to her height: now
riseth the desire of the sea with its thousand breasts.

Kissed and sucked WOULD it be by the thirst of the sun; vapour WOULD it
become, and height, and path of light, and light itself!

Verily, like the sun do I love life, and all deep seas.

And this meaneth TO ME knowledge: all that is deep shall ascend--to my
height! --

Thus spake Zarathustra.




XXXVIII. SCHOLARS.

When I lay asleep, then did a sheep eat at the ivy-wreath on my
head,--it ate, and said thereby: "Zarathustra is no longer a scholar. "

It said this, and went away clumsily and proudly. A child told it to me.

I like to lie here where the children play, beside the ruined wall,
among thistles and red poppies.

A scholar am I still to the children, and also to the thistles and red
poppies. Innocent are they, even in their wickedness.

But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar: so willeth my lot--blessings
upon it!

For this is the truth: I have departed from the house of the scholars,
and the door have I also slammed behind me.

Too long did my soul sit hungry at their table: not like them have I got
the knack of investigating, as the knack of nut-cracking.

Freedom do I love, and the air over fresh soil; rather would I sleep on
ox-skins than on their honours and dignities.

I am too hot and scorched with mine own thought: often is it ready to
take away my breath. Then have I to go into the open air, and away from
all dusty rooms.

But they sit cool in the cool shade: they want in everything to be
merely spectators, and they avoid sitting where the sun burneth on the
steps.

Like those who stand in the street and gape at the passers-by: thus do
they also wait, and gape at the thoughts which others have thought.

Should one lay hold of them, then do they raise a dust like flour-sacks,
and involuntarily: but who would divine that their dust came from corn,
and from the yellow delight of the summer fields?

When they give themselves out as wise, then do their petty sayings and
truths chill me: in their wisdom there is often an odour as if it came
from the swamp; and verily, I have even heard the frog croak in it!

Clever are they--they have dexterous fingers: what doth MY simplicity
pretend to beside their multiplicity! All threading and knitting and
weaving do their fingers understand: thus do they make the hose of the
spirit!

Good clockworks are they: only be careful to wind them up properly!
Then do they indicate the hour without mistake, and make a modest noise
thereby.

Like millstones do they work, and like pestles: throw only seed-corn
unto them! --they know well how to grind corn small, and make white dust
out of it.

They keep a sharp eye on one another, and do not trust each other the
best. Ingenious in little artifices, they wait for those whose knowledge
walketh on lame feet,--like spiders do they wait.

I saw them always prepare their poison with precaution; and always did
they put glass gloves on their fingers in doing so.

They also know how to play with false dice; and so eagerly did I find
them playing, that they perspired thereby.
We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to
my taste than their falsehoods and false dice.

And when I lived with them, then did I live above them. Therefore did
they take a dislike to me.

They want to hear nothing of any one walking above their heads; and so
they put wood and earth and rubbish betwixt me and their heads.

Thus did they deafen the sound of my tread: and least have I hitherto
been heard by the most learned.

All mankind's faults and weaknesses did they put betwixt themselves and
me:--they call it "false ceiling" in their houses.

But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts ABOVE their heads; and even
should I walk on mine own errors, still would I be above them and their
heads.

For men are NOT equal: so speaketh justice. And what I will, THEY may
not will! --

Thus spake Zarathustra.




XXXIX. POETS.

"Since I have known the body better"--said Zarathustra to one of his
disciples--"the spirit hath only been to me symbolically spirit; and all
the 'imperishable'--that is also but a simile. "

"So have I heard thee say once before," answered the disciple, "and then
thou addedst: 'But the poets lie too much. ' Why didst thou say that the
poets lie too much? "

"Why? " said Zarathustra. "Thou askest why? I do not belong to those who
may be asked after their Why.

Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced the
reasons for mine opinions.

Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my
reasons with me?

It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a
bird flieth away.

And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which
is alien to me, and trembleth when I lay my hand upon it.

But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too
much? --But Zarathustra also is a poet.

Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it? "

The disciple answered: "I believe in Zarathustra. " But Zarathustra shook
his head and smiled. --

Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself.

But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lie
too much: he was right--WE do lie too much.

We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie.

And which of us poets hath not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous
hotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing hath
there been done.

And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with
the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women!

And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one
another in the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us.

And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which CHOKETH
UP for those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in
their "wisdom. "

This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricketh up his ears
when lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learneth something of the
things that are betwixt heaven and earth.

And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always
think that nature herself is in love with them:

And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and
amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride themselves, before
all mortals!

Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the
poets have dreamed!

And especially ABOVE the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations,
poet-sophistications!

Verily, ever are we drawn aloft--that is, to the realm of the clouds:
on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them Gods and
Supermen:--

Are not they light enough for those chairs! --all these Gods and
Supermen? --

Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual!
Ah, how I am weary of the poets!

When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And
Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if
it gazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath. --

I am of to-day and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in me
that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter.

I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are
they all unto me, and shallow seas.

They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling
did not reach to the bottom.

Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these
have as yet been their best contemplation.

Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the
jingle-jangling of their harps; what have they known hitherto of the
fervour of tones! --

They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that
it may seem deep.

And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries
and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure! --

Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish;
but always did I draw up the head of some ancient God.

Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may
well originate from the sea.

Certainly, one findeth pearls in them: thereby they are the more like
hard molluscs. And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt
slime.

They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the
peacock of peacocks?

Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it spread out its tail;
never doth it tire of its lace-fan of silver and silk.

Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh to the sand with its
soul, nigher still to the thicket, nighest, however, to the swamp.

What is beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speak
unto the poets.

Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of
vanity!

Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet--should they even be
buffaloes! --

But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it
will become weary of itself.

Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards
themselves.

Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the
poets. --

Thus spake Zarathustra.




XL. GREAT EVENTS.

There is an isle in the sea--not far from the Happy Isles of
Zarathustra--on which a volcano ever smoketh; of which isle the people,
and especially the old women amongst them, say that it is placed as a
rock before the gate of the nether-world; but that through the volcano
itself the narrow way leadeth downwards which conducteth to this gate.

Now about the time that Zarathustra sojourned on the Happy Isles, it
happened that a ship anchored at the isle on which standeth the smoking
mountain, and the crew went ashore to shoot rabbits. About the noontide
hour, however, when the captain and his men were together again, they
saw suddenly a man coming towards them through the air, and a voice said
distinctly: "It is time! It is the highest time! " But when the figure
was nearest to them (it flew past quickly, however, like a shadow, in
the direction of the volcano), then did they recognise with the greatest
surprise that it was Zarathustra; for they had all seen him before
except the captain himself, and they loved him as the people love: in
such wise that love and awe were combined in equal degree.

"Behold! " said the old helmsman, "there goeth Zarathustra to hell! "

About the same time that these sailors landed on the fire-isle, there
was a rumour that Zarathustra had disappeared; and when his friends were
asked about it, they said that he had gone on board a ship by night,
without saying whither he was going.

Thus there arose some uneasiness. After three days, however, there came
the story of the ship's crew in addition to this uneasiness--and
then did all the people say that the devil had taken Zarathustra. His
disciples laughed, sure enough, at this talk; and one of them said even:
"Sooner would I believe that Zarathustra hath taken the devil. " But at
the bottom of their hearts they were all full of anxiety and longing: so
their joy was great when on the fifth day Zarathustra appeared amongst
them.

And this is the account of Zarathustra's interview with the fire-dog:

The earth, said he, hath a skin; and this skin hath diseases. One of
these diseases, for example, is called "man. "

And another of these diseases is called "the fire-dog": concerning HIM
men have greatly deceived themselves, and let themselves be deceived.

To fathom this mystery did I go o'er the sea; and I have seen the truth
naked, verily! barefooted up to the neck.

Now do I know how it is concerning the fire-dog; and likewise concerning
all the spouting and subversive devils, of which not only old women are
afraid.

"Up with thee, fire-dog, out of thy depth! " cried I, "and confess how
deep that depth is! Whence cometh that which thou snortest up?

Thou drinkest copiously at the sea: that doth thine embittered eloquence
betray! In sooth, for a dog of the depth, thou takest thy nourishment
too much from the surface!

At the most, I regard thee as the ventriloquist of the earth: and ever,
when I have heard subversive and spouting devils speak, I have found
them like thee: embittered, mendacious, and shallow.

Ye understand how to roar and obscure with ashes! Ye are the best
braggarts, and have sufficiently learned the art of making dregs boil.

Where ye are, there must always be dregs at hand, and much that is
spongy, hollow, and compressed: it wanteth to have freedom.

'Freedom' ye all roar most eagerly: but I have unlearned the belief in
'great events,' when there is much roaring and smoke about them.

And believe me, friend Hullabaloo! The greatest events--are not our
noisiest, but our stillest hours.

Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the inventors of new
values, doth the world revolve; INAUDIBLY it revolveth.

And just own to it! Little had ever taken place when thy noise and smoke
passed away. What, if a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in the
mud!

And this do I say also to the o'erthrowers of statues: It is certainly
the greatest folly to throw salt into the sea, and statues into the mud.

In the mud of your contempt lay the statue: but it is just its law, that
out of contempt, its life and living beauty grow again!

With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing by its suffering; and
verily! it will yet thank you for o'erthrowing it, ye subverters!

This counsel, however, do I counsel to kings and churches, and to all
that is weak with age or virtue--let yourselves be o'erthrown! That ye
may again come to life, and that virtue--may come to you! --"

Thus spake I before the fire-dog: then did he interrupt me sullenly, and
asked: "Church? What is that? "

"Church? " answered I, "that is a kind of state, and indeed the most
mendacious. But remain quiet, thou dissembling dog! Thou surely knowest
thine own species best!

Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog; like thee doth it like
to speak with smoke and roaring--to make believe, like thee, that it
speaketh out of the heart of things.

For it seeketh by all means to be the most important creature on earth,
the state; and people think it so. "

When I had said this, the fire-dog acted as if mad with envy. "What! "
cried he, "the most important creature on earth? And people think it
so? " And so much vapour and terrible voices came out of his throat, that
I thought he would choke with vexation and envy.

At last he became calmer and his panting subsided; as soon, however, as
he was quiet, I said laughingly:

"Thou art angry, fire-dog: so I am in the right about thee!

And that I may also maintain the right, hear the story of another
fire-dog; he speaketh actually out of the heart of the earth.

Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain: so doth his heart desire.
What are ashes and smoke and hot dregs to him!

Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud; adverse is he to thy
gargling and spewing and grips in the bowels!

The gold, however, and the laughter--these doth he take out of the heart
of the earth: for, that thou mayst know it,--THE HEART OF THE EARTH IS
OF GOLD. "

When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer endure to listen to me.
Abashed did he draw in his tail, said "bow-wow! " in a cowed voice, and
crept down into his cave. --

Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however, hardly listened to him:
so great was their eagerness to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits,
and the flying man.

"What am I to think of it! " said Zarathustra. "Am I indeed a ghost?

But it may have been my shadow. Ye have surely heard something of the
Wanderer and his Shadow?

One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a tighter hold of it;
otherwise it will spoil my reputation. "

And once more Zarathustra shook his head and wondered. "What am I to
think of it! " said he once more.

"Why did the ghost cry: 'It is time! It is the highest time! '

For WHAT is it then--the highest time? "--

Thus spake Zarathustra.




XLI. THE SOOTHSAYER.

"-And I saw a great sadness come over mankind. The best turned weary of
their works.

A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: 'All is empty, all is alike,
all hath been! '

And from all hills there re-echoed: 'All is empty, all is alike, all
hath been! '

To be sure we have harvested: but why have all our fruits become rotten
and brown? What was it fell last night from the evil moon?

In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye
hath singed yellow our fields and hearts.

Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust
like ashes:--yea, the fire itself have we made aweary.

All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded. All the
ground trieth to gape, but the depth will not swallow!

'Alas! where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned? ' so
soundeth our plaint--across shallow swamps.

Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake
and live on--in sepulchres. "

Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak; and the foreboding touched
his heart and transformed him. Sorrowfully did he go about and wearily;
and he became like unto those of whom the soothsayer had spoken. --

Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while, and there cometh the
long twilight. Alas, how shall I preserve my light through it!

That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness! To remoter worlds shall
it be a light, and also to remotest nights!

Thus did Zarathustra go about grieved in his heart, and for three days
he did not take any meat or drink: he had no rest, and lost his speech.
At last it came to pass that he fell into a deep sleep. His disciples,
however, sat around him in long night-watches, and waited anxiously to
see if he would awake, and speak again, and recover from his affliction.

And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake when he awoke; his
voice, however, came unto his disciples as from afar:

Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my friends, and help me to
divine its meaning!

A riddle is it still unto me, this dream; the meaning is hidden in it
and encaged, and doth not yet fly above it on free pinions.

All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-watchman and
grave-guardian had I become, aloft, in the lone mountain-fortress of
Death.

There did I guard his coffins: full stood the musty vaults of those
trophies of victory. Out of glass coffins did vanquished life gaze upon
me.

The odour of dust-covered eternities did I breathe: sultry and
dust-covered lay my soul. And who could have aired his soul there!

Brightness of midnight was ever around me; lonesomeness cowered beside
her; and as a third, death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female
friends.

Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to open with
them the most creaking of all gates.

Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound through the long corridors
when the leaves of the gate opened: ungraciously did this bird cry,
unwillingly was it awakened.

But more frightful even, and more heart-strangling was it, when it again
became silent and still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant
silence.

Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time there still was: what
do I know thereof! But at last there happened that which awoke me.

Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like thunders, thrice did the
vaults resound and howl again: then did I go to the gate.

Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who
carrieth his ashes unto the mountain?

And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself. But
not a finger's-breadth was it yet open:

Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart: whistling, whizzing, and
piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin.

And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing the coffin burst up, and
spouted out a thousand peals of laughter.