No More Learning

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?


## p. 152 (#238) ############################################

152 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
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 serious-
ness 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!


## p. 153 (#239) ############################################

XXXIX. —poets. 153
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, arid 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
/"


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154
THUS SPARE
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
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


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XXXIX. —POETS.
155
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 pea-
cocks, 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 moun-


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156 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
tain, 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 Zara-
thustra. 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 inter-
view with the fire-dog:


## p. 157 (#243) ############################################

XL. —GREAT EVENTS. 157
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 I 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 subver-
sive 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 suffi-
ciently learned the art of making dregs boil.
Where ye are, there must always be dregs at
hand, and much that is spongy, hollow, and com-
pressed: 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.


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158 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
And believe me, friend Hollaballoo! 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.


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XL. —GREAT EVENTS. 159
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 sub-
sided; 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


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60 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
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 man-
kind. 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.


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XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER. l6l
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 trans-
formed 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
L


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162 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
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, un-
willingly 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.


## p. 163 (#249) ############################################

XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER. 163
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.
And a thousand caricatures of children, angels,
owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and
mocked, and roared at me.
Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated
me. And I cried with horror as I ne'er cried
before.
But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came
to myself. —
Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then
was silent: for as yet he knew not the interpreta-
tion thereof. But the disciple whom he loved
most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra's hand, and
said:
"Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream,
O Zarathustra!
Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill
whistling, which bursteth open the gates of the
fortress of Death?


## p. 164 (#250) ############################################

164
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued
malices and angel-caricatures of life?
Verily, like a thousand peals of children's
laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres,
laughing at those night-watchmen and grave-
guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister
keys.
With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and
prostrate them: fainting and recovering will
demonstrate thy power over them.
And when the long twilight cometh and the
mortal weariness, even then wilt thou not disappear
from our firmament, thou advocate of life!
New stars hast thou made us see, and new
nocturnal glories : verily, laughter itself hast thou
spread out over us like a many-hued canopy.
Now will children's laughter ever from coffins
flow; now will a strong wind ever come victoriously
unto all mortal weariness: of this thou art thyself
the pledge and the prophet!
Verily, they themselves didst thou dream, thine
enemies: that was thy sorest dream.
But as thou awokest from them and camest to
thyself, so shall they awaken from themselves,
and come unto thee! ”
Thus spake the disciple; and all the others then
thronged around Zarathustra, grasped him by the
hands, and tried to persuade him to leave his bed
and his sadness, and return unto them. Zara-
thustra, however, sat upright on his couch, with an
absent look. Like one returning from long foreign
sojourn did he look on his disciples, and examined
their features; but still he knew them not. When,


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XLI. —THE SOOTHSAYER.
165
however, they raised him, and set him upon his
feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye changed ;
he understood everything that had happened,
stroked his beard, and said with a strong voice :
"Well ! this hath just its time; but see to it,
my disciples, that we have a good repast, and
without delay! Thus do I mean to make amends
for bad dreams!
The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink
at my side: and verily, I will yet show him a sea
in which he can drown himself ! ”-
Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long
into the face of the disciple who had been the
dream-interpreter, and shook his head. -
XLII. -REDEMPTION.
When Zarathustra went one day over the great
bridge, then did the cripples and beggars surround
him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him:
“Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn
from thee, and acquire faith in thy teaching : but
for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is still
needful—thou must first of all convince us cripples !
Here hast thou now a fine selection, and verily, an
opportunity with more than one forelock! The
blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run; and
from him who hath too much behind, couldst thou
well, also, take away a little ;—that, I think, would
be the right method to make the cripples believe in
Zarathustra! "
Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him


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166 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
who so spake: When one taketh his hump from
the hunchback, then doth one take from him his
spirit—so do the people teach. And when one
giveth the blind man eyes, then doth he see too
many bad things on the earth: so that he curseth
him who healed him. He, however, who maketh
the lame man run, inflicteth upon him the greatest
injury; for hardly can he run, when his vices run
away with him—so do the people teach concerning
cripples. And why should not Zarathustra also
learn from the people, when the people learn from
Zarathustra?
It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since
I have been amongst men, to see one person lacking
an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg, and that
others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the
head.
I see and have seen worse things, and divers
things so hideous, that I should neither like to
speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about
some of them: namely, men who lack everything,
except that they have too much of one thing—men
who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big
mouth, or a big belly, or something else big,—
reversed cripples, I call such men.
And when I came out of my solitude, and for
the first time passed over this bridge, then I could
not trust mine eyes, but looked again and again,
and said at last: "That is an ear! An ear as big
as a man! " I looked still more attentively—and
actually there did move under the ear something
that was pitiably small and poor and slim. And
in truth this immense ear was perched on a small
^


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XLII. —REDEMPTION. 167
thin stalk—the stalk, however, was a man! A
person putting a glass to his eyes, could even
recognise further a small envious countenance, and
also that a bloated soullet dangled at the stalk.
The people told me, however, that the big ear was
not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But
I never believed in the people when they spake
of great men—and I hold to my belief that it was
a reversed cripple, who had too little of everything,
and too much of one thing.
When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the
hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback
was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn
to his disciples in profound dejection, and said:
Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as
amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings!
This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find
man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle-
and butcher-ground.
And when mine eye fleeth from the present to
the bygone, it findeth ever the same: fragments
and limbs and fearful chances—but no men!
The present and the bygone upon earth—ah! my
friends—that is my most unbearable trouble; and
I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer
of what is to come.
A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and
a bridge to the future—and alas! also as it were
a cripple on this bridge: all that is Zarathustra.
And ye also asked yourselves often: "Who is
Zarathustra to us? What shall he be called by
us? " And like me, did ye give yourselves questions
for answers,


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168 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror?
Or an inheritor? A harvest? Or a ploughshare?
A physician? Or a healed one?
Is he a poet? Or a genuine one? An emanci-
pator? Or a subjugator? A good one? Or an
evil one?
I walk amongst men as the fragments of the
future: that future which I contemplate.
And it is all my poetisation and aspiration, to
compose and collect into unity what is fragment
and riddle and fearful chance.
And how could I endure to be a man, if man
were not also the composer, and riddle-reader, and
redeemer of chance!
To redeem what is past, and to transform every
"It was " into " Thus would I have it! "—that only
do I call redemption!
Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer
called: thus have I taught you, my friends! But
now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a
prisoner.
Willing emancipateth: but what is that called
which still putteth the emancipator in chains?
"It was ": thus is the Will's teeth-gnashing and
lonesomest tribulation called. Impotent towards
what hath been done—it is a malicious spectator
of all that is past.
Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot
break time and time's desire—that is the Will's
lonesomest tribulation.
Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself
devise in order to get free from its tribulation and
mock at its prison?


## p. 169 (#255) ############################################

XLII. —REDEMPTION. 169
Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly
delivereth itself also the imprisoned Will.
That time doth not run backward—that is its
animosity: "That which was": so is the stone
which it cannot roll, called.
And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity
and ill-humour, and taketh revenge on whatever
doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.
Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a
torturer; and on all that is capable of suffering
it taketh revenge, because it cannot go backward.
This, yea this alone is revenge itself: the Will's
antipathy to time, and its " It was. "
Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and
it became a curse unto all humanity, that this
folly acquired spirit!
The spirit of revenge: my friends, that hath
hitherto been man's best contemplation ; and where
there was suffering, it was claimed there was always
penalty.
"Penalty," so calleth itself revenge. With a
lying word it feigneth a good conscience. .
And because in the willer himself there is suffer-
ing, because he cannot will backwards—thus was
Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be penalty!
And then did cloud after cloud roll over the
spirit, until at last madness preached : " Everything
perisheth, therefore everything deserveth to perish! "
"And this itself is justice, the law of time—that
he must devour his children :" thus did madness
preach.
"Morally are things ordered according to justice
and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from


## p. 170 (#256) ############################################

170 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
the flux of things and from the 'existence' of
penalty? " Thus did madness preach.
"Can there be deliverance when there is eternal
justice? Alas, unrellable is the stone, 'It was':
eternal must also be all penalties! " Thus did
madness preach.
"No deed can be annihilated: how could it be
undone by the penalty! This, this is what is
eternal in the 'existence' of penalty, that existence
also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!
Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and
Willing become non-Willing—:" but ye know, my
brethren, this fabulous song of madness!
Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you
when I taught you: "The Will is a creator. "
All "It was" is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful
chance—until the creating Will saith thereto: "But
thus would I have it. "—
Until the creating Will saith thereto: "But thus
do I will it! Thus shall I will it! "
But did it ever speak thus? And when doth
this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed
from its own folly?
Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-
bringer? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge
and all teeth-gnashing?
And who hath taught it reconciliation with time,
and something higher than all reconciliation?
Something higher than all reconciliation must the
Will will which is the Will to Power—: but how
doth that take place? Who hath taught it also
to will backwards?


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XLII. —REDEMPTION. 171
—But at this point in his discourse it chanced
that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like
a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his
eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances
pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear-
thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed,
and said soothedly:
"It is difficult to live amongst men, because
silence is so difficult—especially for a babbler. "—
Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, how-
ever, had listened to the conversation and had
covered his face during the time; but when he
heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with
curiosity, and said slowly:
"But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
us than unto his disciples? "
Zarathustra answered: "What is there to be
wondered at! With hunchbacks one may well
speak in a hunchbacked way! "
"Very good," said the hunchback; "and with
pupils one may well tell tales out of school.
But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto
his pupils—than unto himself? "—
XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE.
Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible!
The declivity, where the gaze shooteth down-
wards, and the hand graspeth upwards. There
doth the heart become giddy through its double
will.
Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart's double
will?


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172 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
This, this is my declivity and my danger, that my
gaze shooteth towards the summit, and my hand
would fain clutch and lean—on the depth!
To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind
myself to man, because I am pulled upwards to
the Superman: for thither doth mine other will
tend.
And therefore do I live blindly among men, as
if I knew them not: that my hand may not entirely
lose belief in firmness.
I know not you men: this gloom and consolation
is often spread around me.
I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask:
Who wisheth to deceive me?
This is my first manly prudence, that I allow
myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard
against deceivers.
Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how
could man be an anchor to my ball! Too easily
would I be pulled upwards and away!
This providence is over my fate, that I have to
be without foresight.
And he who would not languish amongst men,
must learn to drink out of all glasses; and he who
would keep clean amongst men, must know how to
wash himself even with dirty water.
And thus spake I often to myself for consolation:
"Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappi-
ness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as thy—
happiness! "
This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I
am more forbearing to the vain than to the proud.
Is not wounded vanity the mother of all


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XLIII. —MANLY PRUDENCE. 173
tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded,
there there groweth up something better than
pride.
That life may be fair to behold, its game must
be well played: for that purpose, however, it
needeth good actors.
Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they
play, and wish people to be fond of beholding
them—all their spirit is in this wish.
They represent themselves, they invent them-
selves; in their neighbourhood I like to look upon
life—it cureth of melancholy.
Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because
they are the physicians of my melancholy, and
keep me attached to man as to a drama.
And further, who conceiveth the full depth of
the modesty of the vain man! I am favourable to
him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty.
From you would he learn his belief in himself;
he feedeth upon your glances, he eateth praise out
of your hands.
Your lies doth he even believe when you lie
favourably about him: for in its depths sigheth
his heart: "What am I? "
And if that be the true virtue which is uncon-
scious of itself—well, the vain man is unconscious
of his modesty !